I don’t miss you

Saturday

I slept against your shoulder,
hand lost in the fur of your belly,
whispers, kisses, eyes closed
a decade of rituals,
comfort to the right,
the silence of secrets left.

Sunday

Did I say “I love you”?
Did you say it back?
My memory’s clouded, but I remember
Can we talk?
A plea for empathy,
a lie
betrayal wrapped in a shrug.
like you spilled your coffee
Does she know,
that shrug?
Magma and ice in my veins
questions, demands, insults.
Still, I asked you to hold me,
just for a minute before you left.
Weakness, shame.
Arms hovering, because I couldn’t touch you.
Then you were gone
Arkansas-bound.

Monday

Happy birthday to me
my gifts:
hats, shirts, games, vitamins,
books, slippers, toys, trinkets,
memories.
Just a few of your favorite things.
I’ll box them up and wrap them in colored paper,
like a celebration.