I don’t know when gone became a synonym for leaving, but
you wear the word so well. And you sleep with the lights on;
I like that, too. A man who can only close his eyes in the dark
is a man that cannot be trusted.
Can I just say I’m sorry for emotionally manipulating you so many times
that you thought I was a mess, in therapy, sobbing
in front of an almost-stranger three times a week
who ran out of kleenexes faster than a list of ex-boyfriends.
But in truth I was just the kind of girl
who unrolls her sadness like dough and tries to flatten it
into shape, flours it up until the edges
are no longer distinct, until the smell of sadness
becomes something golden-brown.
If we’re going to eat my sadness, don’t bring me chocolate-chips
the next time you come over:
bring me raisins. If you can remember that,
you’ve got a good chance of me loving you.
I remember walking through the markets of Italy
when you told me that our scars have a history together;
they whisper secrets to one another under the moon.
They complete each others’ sentences.
This is romantic, mine said.
Any tragedy is, yours replied.