When I said I wasn’t with another girl the January after we fell in love for the 3rd time,
It’s because it wasn’t actual sex.
In the February that began our Radio Silence, it was actual sex.
I hate this cantankerous nature you wear so well,
I screamed at myself on the way home,
For poems I write about you still.
I made a scene.
I think about you each morning,
And roughly every 5 days.
I still believe you’re there.
I still masturbate to you.
When it got really bad,
I would put another coat of mop water on the floor of the bar,
To make sure you were asleep when I got to my side of the bed.
You are the only person to whom I’ve lied,
I was telling the truth…
I miss the way your body wraps around my face like a cave we are both lost in.
I remember when you said being with me is like being alone with company.
My friend Sarah wrote a poem about pink ponies.
I’m scared you’re my pink pony.
Her’s is dead. It’s really sad. You’re not dead.
You live in Akron, or Cleveland, in a neighborhood, or wherever.
You are a shadow my body leaves on other girls.
I have a growing queue of things I know will make you laugh & I don’t know where to put them.
I pretend that you are dead.
If you had asked me to stay,
I would not have said no.
It would never mean yes.