i. you will miss him in drizzles and monsoons, in swells and tsunamis. you will listen to his favorite song for hours; it will hit you every unexpected moment. it will hurt, stab, ache, and you will suppress constant screams with strained lips.

ii. you will collect everything he gave to you and wonder if it is dimensionally real. you will sleep in his shirts, retaste saltwater kisses, and reread conversations as if there's something you missed the previous thirty times. absence does not make the heart grow fonder; it rips it apart and you cannot stitch the ragged halves with no thread.

iii. you will feel his touch presently in everything you do. it will be soft and cruelly comforting. it will constantly and inescapably linger. it will haunt you in early rainy mornings and dark lonely evenings.

iv. you will read endless musings on love and philosophy. you will entirely understand foucault's prison. you will live in steinbeck's tide pools and stars, and relate to simon bolivar trapped in his labyrinth. you will wonder why everything is like this, ugly and broken (and also if you are becoming delusional).

v. you will drink tea that scalds your tongue and stand outside on freezing nights, numb and overfeeling at the same time. you will ask the silent moon a thousand questions. you will see him and blink, head swimming, heart pounding in surges. the stars will wink and the wind will mock you.

vi. you will have blissful afternoons you forget and sorrowful nights you remember. it will still consume you in bouts, devour you in spells. nighttime will become both your enemy and remedy: it will wickedly remind you, yet help you heal.

vii. you will try and fail to make sense of him (and the universe in general). you will grapple with reality and yourself. perhaps you will never know why he stopped loving you: you will keep wondering how some things can just be left broken.

iix. slowly, slowly, you will sprout on your own; you will be tender and nearly whole. most importantly, you will realize his love brought you an entirely different kind of happiness.

ix. you will stop worrying and trying to piece together an empty puzzle. even the deepest scars find their way of fading. your mom was right: stop picking at the scab and your wound will heal.

x. you will learn to love yourself in ways he never could have loved you.

I. I say your flesh won't
Be enough for me. You say
I can have your bones.

II. Don't let yourself think
For one second I don't know
Your whole, cursed structure.

III. The angle of your
Pinky finger is, frankly,
Not too promising.

IV. You fall and fall and
Fall and fall and fall and fall
And fall and then snap.

V. We say we're fragile.
The flesh, maybe. But the bone
Is god's own thumbtack.

VI. I wanna kiss your
Skull. Leap past all the dying
Stuff and touch the sea.

VII. Cartilage is a
Nasty, cowardly *****. But
Somehow I need it.

IIX. Break a bone for me.

i.
i’d spent weeks fantasizing about how our first encounter would play out. how i would rise up out of the underground, face tilted upwards, meeting yours excitedly and embracing you wildly the second i reached the top. instead i was at a different terminal and you were at the wrong end of the baggage claim, and when i turned and looked up you were already there. you kissed me hard and after only being with you for three seconds i knew saying goodbye would be the hardest thing i’ve ever had to do.

iii.
i do not have a photographic memory, but there are things i paid special attention to; like the bridge of your nose, how your eyes looked bluer in natural light, the way you’d sort of laugh and say “thank you” whenever you hung up the phone, even if the call was to give you a new errand to run that put you out of the way. how you looked after your sister and how you looked at me when you caught me studying your face. everything you did naturally amazed me.

v.
writing this is making me cry again.

vii.
i knew i was in deep **** whenever your mother tried to pigeonhole me into defining us. i knew i was in even deeper **** when you avoided the question.

ix.
the last night was the worst. i’d had a drink and i was already drunk on you and your hand was down my pants the entire way to your house. your brother was home so we went back to the car and made out in the backseat while i cried. when you pulled over and wordlessly walked me out into the rain in a dark park i was cold but i didn’t question it and i certainly didn’t have the air to question it when you picked me up and kissed me, hard. “your trip wouldn’t be complete without making out in the rain,” you explain, and i can’t help but laugh.

iix.
when the plane takes off, i look out over the city, watching as all the little bright bits and pieces become enveloped in clouds. i miss you already.

He pushed me in a shopping cart
along the gum- stained pavement
rattling over cracks filled with small weeds heaving to grow
the sun is sinking into the still, black sea
but my heart is rising with the moon

I.
why do you think you are the exception?

II.
because that's not how the story goes?

III.
because surely that, couldn't have been the right name for it

V.
you can't call it that because you're supposed to remember, if you can't forget it why can't you remember the details? why can't you remember anything except that? why can't you?

VI.
maybe he didn't even know you didn't want that, you never said so, never said no,

VII.
no he never,

IIX.
asked