1 – Buy blood oranges - big round ones - for V's birthday cake

2 – Write a scathing review on life's brilliant portrayal of Quarter-Life crisis.

3 – Unclog the kitchen sink. Pull out remnants of your hair from the bathroom drain. Wash away your scent from the pillowcases. Free our skeletons from the sheets.

4 – Keep this beaten box littered with keepsakes of your tired smile.

5 – Clean the foyer. Take out the trash.

6 – Pick up your fallen lashes from between the crevices of the sofa - these remnants of your belonging was once mundane. Now, they are ghosts haunting my sleep.

7 – Write a eulogy for the forgotten love, laid to rest upon spitting embers.

8 – Make tomorrow's list.

9 – Forget your naked, thieving smile. Forget your proud smirk when you can't admit defeat. Forget your fingerprints etched on glass walls caging my treacherous chord.

10 – Admit it is time to forget.

11 – Feed the dog. Empty the kitty litter.

12 – Try 2, 4, 6, 7, 9, and 10 again. Maybe, tomorrow. Empty this list of you.

I suppose,
your stories are etched on the lines of your hands,
the curve of your hips,
the scar on your arm.
If they took notice
of the verses singing off your skin,
they would grasp the presence
that undoubtedly sweetens your stubborn bends.

If I may be frank,
my reach is not as noble as you would hope.
I am sure the stories emanating from your sighs
are rather rewarding to decipher;
however, I would rather learn
the edges your bones carve upon your softness,
the quivers that saunter down your thighs.
Let my hands learn how your body reads instead.