There is a hole in my dress and I’m going
to name it after you. I can’t stop fingering it.
My apartment smells lonelier now that you’re gone—
like burnt almonds, sea salt, peanut oil.
I remember your hands and your slow heart.
How you made me waffles after I told you that I got the job.
Your loud music. When you moved out, it was weird.
I had to remember that I was an adult.
That the pantry needed to be filled.
That someone had to make the bed and remove my hair
from the shower drain. Now dinner is mostly rubbery noodles
with sauce from a jar. You can see my hipbones now,
see how they are a bowl for catching mistakes.
I reek of other boys even though I haven’t been kissed in weeks.
Sometimes I sit in bars and inhale everyone else’s addictions.
I don’t touch the parts inside of me that still care.
I cry into my soup and flirt with the waiter.
Everything is a work in progress. This is not a goodbye poem.
This is not a poem that is asking for you back.
I think I am just sad because no one stays together anymore.