Every time I feel like I’m about to miss you, I stop myself
by taking a trip to the local hospital and watching
the heart monitors spike up and down, up and down-
a metaphor for our relationship, sometimes going
in the right direction, but mostly heading in the wrong.
Sometimes I leave you voicemails at the worst possible
times of night, because I know you’ll either be in bed
or about to step into the shower, and it allows me
to picture you better: naked, dark hair stroking
the nape of your neck like melted wax climbing
down a candle, the hollow between your legs
that I get lost in like the cleft of a peach.
They’re never really optimistic voicemails,
but then again I’m more of a pessimist on
the good days. I’m the kind
who sees the ocean as half-empty instead
of the glass. After all, the ocean leaves more room
for improvement since 243,658,298 glasses
can fit inside it. And that’s enough glasses
to throw out my dorm room window as a coping
mechanism for missing you, but the sound
of them shattering could never compare
to that of my heart.