i drive past twenty-seven churches before i realize
that i am looking for someone
to save me. you will not want to know this,
but i think about telling you anyway,

think about calling
you up on the phone and saying, “hey, do you
remember me? i’m the girl who sat in your
passenger seat like it was stitched to fit the curve of her waist.
you loved my broken poetry. you loved the stain
of my teeth against your collarbone.
you looked into my eyes and thought about oceans and blackberries.
you thought about what it would be like to love me,
to carry me over the fire and deliver me from the floods.
but tonight

i am not your cross to bear.
you are miles away and i am still here, rubbing
over old scars that still ache when it rains and writing
poetry in the same stupid stilted stanzas you used to love.
i guess i haven’t gotten the hang of letting go yet.
i was kind of hoping you could give me some pointers.

i know it sounds crazy,
but sometimes when i get too distant, i imagine
all the cities you have been to since the last time we kissed.
i hope they have loved you kinder and more gently than
i ever did. i am sorry about the wreckage and the wine
and the cigarettes and the sins. i just—

i just need you to know that i think about you often,
okay, and nothing has been the same since you left,
but i would never forgive you if you came back. please,
keep your feet towards the horizon. please forget
my name. please do not call back.”