The point in the end is love.
Not who is loving or who is being loved.
Teach me the way your shoulders
stayed stubborn and soft for years
before the hardness of you, before the
stiff collar of you.
I am the goddess of
going away and still being
beautiful about it.
I am the goddess of holding the phone
and knowing your number by heart
and dialling no one.
I will make up a guy to tell you about.
How he kissed me all wrong,
how he tasted like cheap flavour
and a city unheard of,
how I still have his watch at my bedside
and how I never knew seconds
ticked so fast, so loud.
I walk myself home and
listen to no one answer their phones
and keep the window open this night
and feel the wind practice darts,
feel it forget how tender this skin is,
how prone to purple and bruise.
I keep the blanket off but near
and I write myself a poem about
how many things I am forgetting about you,
about how many poems I have written
about just this.