I cried, even though I tried
 to understand
 “I’ll never get that high
 again,” I said once before
 but when you can’t help but look
 for love behind every
 tethered soul, trying to help them
 remember what if felt like
 when it all first started.

He was different, wouldn’t allow
 me to place him in the category
 of fuckboy, nor second chance;
 he called me Mami, held my hand
 when I teased him about his dimples
 in the backseat, he
 wouldn’t touch me
 because I needed to learn
 how to show respect
 before I crushed it
 with my big, hollow, looking-for-the-damaged toe.

They all have something to say right away
 either, “I’m noot looking” (for you)
 or “I’m in love” (with you)
 I always know
 except the two-nighters
 who don’t have much to say
 at all.

But at least, I’m grateful
 that I don’t have to fit in
 kisses before coffee
 I’m an anxious woman
 too close to jump
 too far back to fall.

I have fantasies about New York
 and Venezuela
 and pickup trucks rolling down the highway
 with me finger-fucking in the back of
 all of them,
 but no fantasies all my own
 “If you can’t be with yourself
 how do you expect to be with anyone else?”
 but the healing
 is always easier with a name and number inspiration.

You were number four and a half
 sorry you weren’t so special
 but you’ll be better off than number five
 you were special enough
 to water my eyes from the drought
 here, it rains once a month
 in Seattle, it would rain every day.
 Say goodbye to Mami
 say goodbye to the freckle
 that touched the soft of your neck
 find yourself a tighter, easier, pool-playing woman
 I’ll be on the road in a few short days.

Originally published on Wordpress

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