i have a grave confession but
we both know you’d rather not hear it
so we listen to the little things in smug satisfaction
of such almost ignorance:

the eerie creak of open doors we never meant to leave unhinged
(oh secrets separate so-
do anything to me but lie, love)
swinging slowly, as back and forth as you & i

the sirens wailing from the streets below
relaying chaos & bemoaning loss
like children, never learning to do more than cry
for everything they’ll never have
(and you dared to call me selfish
that brittle, tear-soaked night
when i broke wider than repair)—

these sounds i will recall in days to come
like dirges of your absence,
faltering in the feeble morning light
when you no longer call to wake me up
and i battle with the reality
that no one else will ever say my name
exactly the way you did

so i write postcards to you
on my windowpanes and mirrors,
studying ripples in my water glass
for any signs of a return

when all you’ve left behind are
the rings & stains on my coffee table,
orbits and shadows of your
presence in my small apartment,
fatal reminders of the way we would both forget
that things like glasses and secrets
tend to leave their marks.