When I was a child, I used to do something akin to that silly game
of petal-tearing involving the words “He loves me, he loves me not,"
except my way included counting out the stars that blinked on and off
in the night sky, and substituted “leaves" for “loves."
I was never very good at fortune-telling, but for every star
that blinked off like a lamp turning out before bed,
I knew someone else in the future was going to leave me.
So now, when I’m home alone eating ramen noodles in my pajamas,
staring out the darkening window as cicadas try to feel one another up,
I know that the nights he’s not with me, he must be with you.
But if blame is a notch in an antique bedpost, then I’m not interested
in carving yours up tonight. It takes more than one person to break
a relationship, and this one’s shattered beyond repair
because the three of us took to it with a sledgehammer.
Sure, of course there are nights when I try to erase your name
from his skin with my tongue, or kiss him harder to drown out
the failed punchline of your mouth, but for what it’s worth,
I know just as well as you do that what is written on the body once
will never disappear. And if that’s true, then by following the same logic,
you and I will forever be linked like Olympic Rings, the two of us
with him in between like some lost planet, Saturn maybe,
trying to figure out which one of us to orbit on which night.
On the mornings when I drive blindly through the fog on my way
to work, I think of you-because somewhere out there,
you’re just trying to make your way through this mess too.
So I guess what I’m trying to say is that I don’t blame you,
and I’d need a stronger lasso to pull you away from him,
just as you would for me. Neither of us have that kind of strength.
I love him, and you do too.
So for now, even though it’s hard, we can love him together.