who knows? (i’m stuck in the past and can’t get out. you’re not here. were you ever?) who knows?

i.

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.

who knows?

(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

about us.

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

something?

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

at all?

ii.

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

doesn’t move

forward. she’s not here, and

i don’t know if she

ever was. someone come

find me,

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

please.