The fourth time you left me, I cut off thirteen inches
of my hair after reading that in modern Asia, it symbolizes
leaving the past behind and starting fresh.
I still know your calluses better than my own, have memorized
the shape of your laugh like a favorite poem so well
it could fit between the curve of my palms
and never turn into a scream. Whenever I see a man
who looks like you on the train ride home, long dark hair
like black candle wax melting down to the wick,
trenchcoat that makes him look faintly shady,
my stomach skips stones so hard they’d make permanent
indents in the water. In January you came back so we had sex
in a public restroom against the stall wall, you pinning
my wrists against the tile like two trees in a forest;
your tongue tasted every eyelash like deforestation.
Absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder.
Studies have shown it only makes the heart
so emotionally invested in someone else’s chest
that even a banker couldn’t save their mortgage.
You should see me now; the stubble
is growing back in so well.