Cold boots in the morning.


Cold boots in the morning.
the way you’d bite your tongue holding the pythons
of your words at bay for my benefit
(you’d always win if they came out).
The way I was afraid of you
That I never thought someone might hit me before but was
quite sure you would at some point.
The way you never did.

I remember wanting you so bad I could make my heart pound
at a millions beats a minute on command
just by whispering your name.

I remember whispering your name

and never calling you it to your face.
I remember that your name was baby, sweetheart, honey, love.
I remember that these names weren’t unique or special
until we clutched each other like two people trying to survive the apocalypse.
I remember that us clutching became the apocalypse.

I remember all nasty things you heard me say and all the nasty things
I heard you say and how our mouths were closed
(windows) the whole time.

I remember all the hours I’ve spent writing about you since (still)
I remember the way the sky looked over the valley, the way
the people in camping chairs lined up in the parking lot watched and laughed
and pointed at it.
Brilliant nature, possibly deadly, definitely pretty.
You are all of these things too.
Baby. sweetheart. Honey. Love.

I don’t know anything about you and
I know everything about you and
I am alone.

Mostly, I remember all the reasons I tell myself about why you aren’t
in love with me anymore and I feel sorry for myself.
I try not to go get drunk when this happens.
it doesn’t always work.
You would hate that.
I would love that you would hate that.

I remember that I miss you.
Happy anniversary, baby
(we never even decided when that was).


One thought on “Cold boots in the morning.

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