I don't remember what
movie we watched that
night but it was before we
got those christmas lights
and there was an airport
( I think). Your room was
a plum house, your bed,
on the right side of the room
against the wall, Why do I
remember knives? Were we
eating? This is what I do daily,
pilfer my own caverns for memories
and try to piece them together
but for the life of me I can't
remember what we were
watching.

I don't want you to become
another foreign thing in my
closet and inside
I ask myself what I expected
What I was hoping? Every
secret thought, I don't capture
them all.

And your memories: those I
deem property of Chris inside
my head, play on a spanish loop
with He Venido on low in the background.

I don't plan on getting rid of you.
Or forgetting you, or burying your
face behind stacks of books, The Count,
The Little Prince, A Clockwork Orange,
Things Fall Apart, and most of all the
Lemony Snicket hardcover that you
hid condoms in, the ones we never
used.

I have tried to document you because
I hope that it will help or that you will
see these things, but I have taken your
willpower for granted.  You perhaps
write nothing of me, maybe in a
diary maybe no where maybe
I am buried, maybe I am gone
maybe you have ripped out
my pages, my pictures, my
hair from thoughts no longer
strays on your bed, maybe you
have chosen to move on.

I don't want to end this poem.

your birthday
is this month
i remember
telling you
about how
my ex always
texted me on
my birthday
(we usually
laughed)


but now what
do I do when
we're so close
to that wound
do I just not
say anything
at all?

you listened to
Ricky Gervais
podcasts and
harry potter
audio books
to help you
sleep. I
remember
when your
hair was
brown.

I see you blended
into my artwork, a
pencil smudge or
shape in the carpet
alight in yellow paint
dusted over in eraser
shavings, drawn out
in miscellaneous shapes
and misplaced lines, I
drew you out till the
last strings, the last
lead, the last words

I always wondered when
I was going to stumble upon
one of your pictures, I ended
up realizing you're not pouting.
I didn't really want you to anyway
I've been doing the same things I
was doing with Chaz, trying out
the nun business trying to be the
****** freaking mary so as not to
hurt you, but I'm not actually
hurting you am I? Because you're
doing just fine and I don't need
to walk on eggshells, I love you
but I don't need to walk on
eggshells I LOVE YOU but
I don't need to walk on
******* eggshells.

I'm done pouting.