Three o’clock in the morning
& the insomnia kicks in;
I’m up & there’s no caffeine in my system,
just bottled water & a handful
of watered-down memories,
&okay maybe I sneaked some of those
2-month-old Sour Patch Kids
you warned would give me a stomachache.

Your face drifts up out of the dark,
constant like a migraine & about as welcome, too.

But there you are.

& there’s the taste of ashes on my tongue once again
while your hyena laughter fills my ears;
you smell like drugs and dirt,
but I just breath deeper, hoping to asphyxiate
(better than the alternative, to live without you).

In the shower, it’s your fingers pulling through my hair too hard
(but I don’t say anything)
& commenting on the length,
& when I turn and blink at the emptiness
it’s your phantom that whispers “You’re beautiful when you’re wet.”

Sitting behind the store counter,
watching the couples; I remember your hand in mine,
& that look in your sea glass eyes I know means trouble
but I can’t bare to take my hand back or look away
lest you should disappear and I should be left standing hanging onto thin air.

You’re wearing those Tommy jeans that make your ass look great
with that shirt from Zumiez I bought with too much purple on it I still think makes you look queer,
&yet I didn’t bat an eyelash two hundred and thirty-eight dollars later
because that was the first time I saw you smile all day,
(& this way, in these new clothes, you’d always be wearing a part of me –
so despite all the break-ups, and the girls I saw allover you,
I could point and remind you “Nice shoes” which I got for you).

Funny how you say my jealousy is what scared you away,
yet it was your possessiveness (and infidelity)
that ended it at the grand finale.

What makes me laugh so hard I cry
is the fact I want you back.

You touch the tears on my face, and whisper,
“You’re so beautiful when you’re wet.”

---

Author's note: Oh crap, now she's trying to write poetry... (somebody stab me, please).