You want to talk about my poems but those are not words
I have to give you. I am busy still living in the city where we
fell in love. I’ve papered the walls of my bedroom with maps
of the places that leave your name on my tongue. This is not
the best way to forget you but it’s better than drinking alone.
This black line snakes across the river from my apartment to
your dirty kitchen. I miss the way your breath felt on my neck.
I can’t say I miss you without flinching
The blue dots are the bar stools where we drank whiskey as
I apologized for being a world-class bitch. The green star is
the diner where we got coffee the first morning we woke up
together. I want a tattoo of the first morning we woke up to-
gether. I want the memory to hurt.
There is a burn mark at the center of the Hawthorne Bridge
and you know why. We don’t need to talk about it. I am so
sorry. I am the wrong kind of strong.
I am mad at you because these days being mad at you is as
close as I get to kissing your forehead. It keeps raining but
nothing looks cleaner. Everything in Portland is a postcard
saying “Wish You Were Here!” So many of the books in my
bedroom used to be your books.
I was dying to
That I didn’t need
to try so hard to be perfect,
That i was enough
it was okay.