When I see the creases in his bed, I imagine what she
must look like sleeping between them, if he ever finds strands
of her long red hair tucked between the sheets and mistakes
them for blood. If hearts could be operated on in the emergency
room by special doctors, well, then, stitch me up.
His name will be my newspaper headline for weeks on end,
try so hard to pronounce it without hers immediately following;
drinking to forget someone should be a new kind
of drinking game: for every time they love someone else,
take a Jello shot. Even hangovers feel like a headache’s ghost
when compared to this sledgehammer of an ache,
like a piledriver shoved between a whale’s ribs
or a suicide bomber’s blast decimating the packed earth.
No matter how many men I meet at the bars,
their pickup lines will never compare to what his
must have been the first time he tried to hook up with her.
Come here, I’m not one for running marathons, but I bet
I’ll be trying hard to catch up with you all night.
As a gift for myself whenever they go out on dates,
I buy a new little black dress from the most expensive
clothes store in town, even though I’ve yet to find
someone else to wear it for.
Pretty soon I’ll need a new closet.