After you left me, I drove myself to the bar and looked for all the men
wallowing in self-pity with a few pints of tequila in hand, the ones
who told me how fucking good I looked in my little red dress,
the ones that tried to wipe your scent from my mouth
with their tongues, but only succeeded in burying the wish
to have you back ever deeper in my throat, like coins in a wishing well.
Even now undressing for this long string of goth boys and indie rockers,
the dark-haired poets with trench coats, is nothing like undressing for you-
how every piece of clothing that fell was another reason
for you to call me beautiful, and even the dark red port wine stain on my thigh
tasted like a sunrise, you said. The night you threw your clothes
out the upstairs window, followed by the computer,
I dreamt we visited a French museum and climbed into the glass cases
of dinosaur bones, matching our knobby spines
to the spikes of the stegosaurus, our knees to the wings of the pterodactyls-
brutal, extinction is, almost like leaving a lover
after three years of swallowing their kisses like shooting stars
and having them evaporate into comets in your stomach.