life spans and fractures
into both
    grim intervals
  and
eras of expanse.
the time of you
  stretches behind me
to this moment and no further.
it cannot be,
   so i live in a past of you
covered in the thinnest lines of gold
  the light heartbreaking
  and the air life itself.
   the music encompasses
what even words cannot
      and i could weep at my thankfulness.
today, like every day
  i have the smallest grasp
  the smallest hope
  that the time of you
        stretches and conforms to
  the shape of one more day.

long days and nights
that you haunt my heart
chest at once contracting
then heaving
a sick empty pain
and there is no way to escape
there is no room for hope
there is no way to happiness
there is no way to you.

it is poetically fitting
that you’re the one to remind me
of a phrase i’ve been trying to think of
for two years

i could never get so much of you
that you start losing value

look at this
this condensed structure of bone
and syrup
with its jaw slack
and it’s eyes so empty
gather round and take a glance
at this creature
stumbling about in a trance-like state
of corrupted effort and damnation
it is the spirit of exhaustion
and disappointment
it hides in your closet

it certainly hid
in mine

I can feel you
getting close
your breath picks up
muscles tense
your face twists
your beautiful
freckled face
into pleasure
you prop yourself
up onto elbows
and explode
back down
onto crisp sheets
quivering
sweaty
at ease
I can feel you
because I know
from across this city
you’re thinking of me

I bought a mannequin for $65
it was used, just like you.
it has a stain on its chest
where our matching birthmarks lie
two skin toned islands, both yours.
I carried it home on a rainy evening,
like that wine buzzed night we shared,
baked it your favorite cake,
chocolate, dulce de leche, strawberry.
it was vegan, just for you.
I dressed it up in the clothes you left:
yoga pants, leopard print bralette, black scarf.
your parting gifts.
I'm sure it's cold,
I'll put the space heater on high,
like I always did for you.
it doesn't talk much, it just sits
eyes vacant, without breath,
empty.
like you were at the end.
a fine replacement.
it was used,
just like you.

Zoloft has killed my poems and my erections.
the unfortunate side effects of getting well.
my pen won't mark this paper,
and my ***** hangs it's head in disappointment.
they look me in the face and ask 'why?'
I try to tell them,
about the constant discomfort,
the urge to peel off my skin and escape,
how my mind fixates on misery.
they seem to understand as well as a ball point pen and a flacid ***** could.
their tiny voices squeak
'we want you to be happy'
and I think they mean it
the three of us wonder if the writing will get easier.
the three of us wonder what the point of happiness is without a working ****.
the three of us wonder if we are useless without each other.