who knows? (i’m stuck in the past and can’t get out. you’re not here. were you ever?) who knows?
i wonder if you still have
the glass—my ‘i love you,’ my
loyalty, my heart, my
friendship—and i wonder
if you remember a thing about
me when you see it.
(is it even out? or is it
(in a box somewhere, buried beneath letters and
(notes and clothes and memories and
(dust?) i wonder if you
remember all that i do
the thing is, i can’t remember
anything current for shit. i can’t remember
what day it is, or what i just said, or what my last thought was—
but i can remember her voice, i can
remember our early texts, i can
remember the hurt and the pain and the
ache ache ache of what we aren’t
anymore—and isn’t that
i remember how you loved me,
but not when my next therapy appointment is.
i remember how she smells,
but not who i’m seeing for the next specialist appointment.
i remember how your laugh sounds,
but not what’s in the fridge.
i remember how she sounds when she cries,
but not what i did last week.
i remember our jokes,
but not how much money is in my wallet.
i remember how she gets angry with me,
but not what my best friend’s smile looks like.
i remember when i lost you,
but not when i last saw all my friends.
i remember the hurt and the pain and the aches and all this awful past,
but not the newest, most important things in my life of today.
when will it all go away? when will
i move on? how do i move
on? is there any way to
move on, or do i just live with this ache
rotting inside of me?
is there any end
i heard that things have changed from your husband—that
the birds are on the porch, now, and
not inside. i heard that
the dogs died, and so did many of
the cats. i heard that pete is now
twenty years old, not fifteen. i heard
that there’s only one
guinea hen, now. that you have a new cat.
that you have a cow.
i heard that
time has changed you, that
things have moved on past the point where
my memory captured it all. who
knows if you still have blue-green afternoons in
mid-october? who knows if
you do the taxes at nine am on
a saturday morning under
pink lamplight after breakfast? who knows if
the scraps still go in that pink-brown
trash can, and who knows if the
carpet still smells so bad and grabs your
feet in its hold? who knows if you’ve ripped it out?
who knows if you still have
all the same china, all the same cups, if
the water still tastes like it
washed a cat before it came to be
in your cup? who knows if
everything has changed and moved on
without me, and left me hoping for
someone to find me in the past—who knows
if i’ll be found, looking for you in those blue-green afternoons
or pink-brown mornings, or in the purple
hottub or on the toilet of your bathroom
with a bleeding knee and tears running
down my face, waiting for you to come back; who knows
if i’ll be found, and by
who. who knows? i doubt you do, with your
friend named alcohol. i doubt you will,
with your friend named alcohol. i doubt you
ever did, with your friend named
alcohol. i hate your friend named
alcohol. i hate you.
(i don’t.) (i wish i did.)
someone find me, please,
and take me home—i don’t want to be
here anymore, waiting for her to
pour the peroxide over my bloody knees or
waiting for her to come home and find me in the
mandarins or waiting for her to roll her next move and lose to me in
monopoly or waiting for her to look up at me and
smile. i’m tired of waiting. the past
forward. she’s not here, and
i don’t know if she
ever was. someone come
please. i don’t know
the way out. i don’t know how
to get home. someone please
come find me. someone
take me home