there aren’t enough over used metaphors or bad breakup clichés to tell you anything about us, so I’ll tell you what I did when we both left.
it was four hours later with the knee of some boy pretending to be a grown up digging into my back and asking if I liked that, as if his obscure idea of what rough sex is was the gift of coitus to all animal kind. I liked that I could say “no” and he’d think I was just being bratty. He didn’t know any better, and I was grateful that I still pose the ability to fool some naive boy into thinking he knows two things about the one thing he thinks he’s good at, because I would’ve never gotten away with it with you. By some accidental evolutionary muscle memory, I thought of you for just a second and something too real came out of my mouth. I didn’t know how to ask him not to hold me.
Excuse me that I don’t look at you when you say things, when I drive detours through your country so nothing at home will be close enough to remind me of you the way something like tired hands remind me of him. I went to a different shop because the cashier’s eyes were exactly like his, and I couldn’t handle them blankly staring at mine and feel like it wasn’t their first time.
so I walked a covered path through the how’s instead of the “just likes”, so a million well defined hands won’t ever click into opening a door how you do. There’s a lake full of deep voices that won’t ever curve around sentences to remind me of you, to harrow a two a.m. order of fake drunk pancakes so I can say I really should go home, and there’s no knee in a back that can feign the reflex of my movement to yours