In January it was the atheist, who refused to pray before meals
and only cried God’s name when we were making love.
In February it was a chemist, trying to figure out our various levels
of insolubility to see if we were compatible for one another,
if we could dissolve in each other.
In March, a psychologist: he classically conditioned me by playing
a real-life recording of the sound of a breaking heart every night
exactly five seconds before I closed my eyes for sleep,
so that I would be trained to equate heartbreak with dreams.
In April, it was a vegetarian, who wouldn’t even kiss me
for fear of accidentally biting my tongue, because, as we all know,
the body is meat, and meat is the life of a living soul.
In May, a banker, who counted every waking second spent with me
and sealed it tightly in his vault, never gave me the combination
to the safe, and measured out affection like currency.
In June, it was a cop; he locked the doors
before getting out the engagement ring.
In July, it was the compulsive liar, who said I love you fifty-three times
and got away with it, until I realized that he licked his lips
every time he said a lie, which made for fifty-three licks.
August: a family man with a wife and two children, but also
with a penchant for cheating and not informing me he was married.
In September, it was a burglar, stealing my heart so many times
I was surprised I didn’t press charges.
In October, it was a homeless boy, who lived in my car for two months
on McDonald’s meals and furtive touches, until one day
he disappeared, and took the steering wheel with him.
In November, it was the artist: he spent more time painting my body
than actually touching it.
And in December, it was the poet, who wrote through the days
into the cherry blossoms of spring, and treasured every season
until the new cycle began.