Don’t get too close, you hear me?
You’ll start a fire and it will become
too beautiful for me to destroy.
Go home. Put down your drink.
Kiss your mother. Let her ask about the scar
at your cheekbone and don’t remind her that
it’s been there since the fifth grade.
Let her run her finger over it,
let her love you the way she does,
soft as yarn, unbending as foreign language.
Don’t come back here, you hear me?
Not for another few forevers.
Not until your edges blur, until I forget
the arch of your brow, the jut of your chin.
Not until I stop muttering for you
after just the third sip.
Don’t call me more than once, you hear me?
When you do, I’ll hear it ring and I’ll let it go.
Don’t forget to leave a message. Breathe
so the static catches onto your lungs and
makes that silvery rasp I love.
Tell the silence you need me. Tell it you’ll be fine
if I don’t need you back. Tell it you remember
the way I smoked like everyone was watching,
like every kiss was the one before quitting.
Tell it you miss me. Tell it you’re not lying.
Stop when the beep sounds.
Don’t call again, you hear me?
Learn to be your own battlefield.
Learn to walk to the centre.
Learn that I am on the other side but
I don’t want to shoot either.
Learn to put your weapons down
and walk away.
Last night, I ran for the nearest bus passing
but let it forget to let me on.
Last night, the lake was a teaspoon
of black sky and somewhere,
you unremembered my name.
Every doorframe in my house
seems to wait for you.
The sink leaks and the dishes
fall out of my hands.
They never break,
just clang and clang
and remind me how quiet
everything is afterwards.
Soon, though, I’ll wrap myself in lace
and cut my hem a little lower
and walk the night alone.
Soon, I’ll holds my heels in my hands
and the pebbles on the sidewalk
will hurt my feet.
Soon, I’ll be okay.
I miss you
doesn’t mean I want you back.
I miss you
doesn’t mean I need you to fix this.
I miss you only means
one day I won’t.