[ ]

[ ], you’ve taught me it’s possible

to miss what I never had.

You showed me how to cry

and keel over, dog-like

as I begged for a fortieth chance.

I remember howling. Cornfields. Pleats.

Our dance between chaos and Christmas

lights. When it’s January,

I think of phones

and hotel rooms and me,

lying on a bed, all alone,

touching myself.

[ ], ghosts bleed

more than you do

but maybe you feel now.

What scares me still

is the sea glass

I would have crunched

between my teeth

if I knew you admired the sound.

[ ], I know you

would never buy me roses.

You gave me headaches.

You made me hate sunsets.

We were both terrible people.