and he does not much
care for the “oh, poor
me” routine. So I’ll suck
it up. Still, my melting
smile must signal
disappointment. “That’s
okay. We’ll get together
tomorrow, right?”
Couldn’t keep me away.
He reaches for my shirt,
pulls, and not too gently.
Again, we are connected
by the kind of kiss that
should be integral
to every single good-bye.
I WATCH THE DUST
Of his retreat lift
into the bitter
blue sky. Not
a single cloud
to catch it.
Clear.
Cold.
Empty.
Like how I feel
right now. Love
is strange. One
minute you’re
jungle fever.
The next