Last 3 letters of the spring

To see you crumble

To write a poem about the first time I cried in your kitchen 

To mirror your dry patches and blurry faces, fading

To notice the lights on and sob on the sidewalk

To buy something yellow 

a bunch of flowers, a slowly-eating-your-way-to-my-heart birthday card—think sunshine

Or call you a coward 

Doesn’t look like I am having fun? I guess I am not.

To answer the phone that never calls, call the phone that never answers, unless something bad has happened: do you remember the bitter taste of

coffee on the second day after? For me, it was…the slightly burnt toast, and the stupid cheerful

“what an asshole” (no, he’s not, but what would you know about loss)

To write a poem about the time I cried in your kitchen, whispering vows

To hear the slam of a door that never closed

To unlove you with a stranger on a windowsill of a russian panel building; repeat it 3times,

so no one dies.

To weep out my leather tears while I sip from your old-fashioned; unless you stalk me on the internet, no longer own a tub, and my oven is electric. The roofies wouldn’t help, only give me a headache. 

To write a poem about the time I cried in your kitchen – hits home, I thought; to watch you crumble.