I spent the day on a charter bus,
three seats behind a man
I kept catching at certain
angles,
and he looked just like you.
If I hadn't know any better,
I'd have sworn he was.
If his U. S. Air Force cap had said
U. S. Navy instead.
If he'd been about a foot taller.
If he'd walked with more of
a slump in his back.
But his ears stuck out over the
arms of his glasses, and his white
hair came down to the base
of his neck, and I wanted to
run to him,
but I was stopped by his
mustache, and the squareness
of his face, and those
deep-set eyes when yours were
wide and welcoming.
So I just thanked him
for his service, and then again
in my head because
for a few
sweet hours,
I got to see you again.
I got to love you
from a few rows back.
Sometimes I come home
at two o'clock in the morning
wearing someone else's clothes,
with thighs exposed and heels
that beat against the concrete
in time with the ringing
in my ears.
The neighbors hear it,
and in their windows
index fingers emerge through
dusty blinds, and they watch me
up the stairs with my head high,
the walk of
triumph.
Sometimes I come home
smelling like smoke other people
have breathed on me,
and beer I didn't have to
pay for.
I peel my jeans off,
pull my shirt like a cobweb
over my head, and climb into
white sheets unfazed
by the things you used to mumble,
still sleeping.
I have grown parts of myself
in petri dishes since I last saw
you,
built back bridges you set fire to
inside of me so my backbone
could not connect to my
courage, so I could never
feel whole enough to
forget you.
I have lost parts of myself
between couch cushions and
under car seats since we last
spoke
that I do not want back,
that do not become me,
that are better off tucked
deep in those places,
because it feels better to cut the
dead away,
like a fresh haircut,
like a frostbite amputation, like
a grand opening ribbon
marking the first full day
I didn't miss you.
