you talk a lot for someone who can't communicate.

You say you should quit cutting,
you should forget me.
I am not as understanding
as the woman we shared twelve months ago
when I knew you were distancing
too chickenshit to admit it
drank too much
sat by myself
watched your face
while she swallowed
other people admired your erection.

I've rarely known you to do what you should.
Haven't heard your voice in months,
save the twice you've bothered to communicate.
Not that I'm counting or anything.

I'm counting.
Even though math isn't my strong suit.
I've been spacing from you
gasp and burst, like orgasms
I used to bring you to,
in our hairspray haze.
White spray on black nail polish,
blurred youth's discarded snapshots
more beautiful because
I'll never quite remember or exactly see that boy again.
Alcoholic Adonis in oversized boots.

That was not so long ago,
but the new boyfriend sits across the room
asking why
I've got to pick up mouth corners
over the old boyfriend
suddenly boyfriend is a stupid word,
losing all connection to my reality due to over-repetition,
and the new girlfriend understands.

We held it together too long, and
we took each other too damn far.
If I were a kind woman,
this is where I'd apologize,
but I'm just not sorry.
I lied when I said I was
that cold drug fogged morning.

Tricycles are more stable than bicycles.
The new girlfriend holds my head
More tenderly than she ever held you
Not that I was watching.
Except that I can never look away.