© Moac-me

In June when you moved to New York, I Skyped you

every day from my bed at the crack of dawn, bleary-eyed

and still waking up, just so I could catch you before

you went to sleep. Sometimes our cat, Patrick,

stuck his head in the frame and meowed at your image,

licking the screen just like I…

It’s strange to think that the person you’re going to marry is somewhere out there, eating lunch in a subway station or spilling coffee on their dress slacks only five minutes before they have to leave the house for work, or looking in the mirror and hating what they see. Who knows how many mouths…

Someday I hope you’ll remove all the butterflies from your stomach

and count them up one by one, then place them in a manila envelope

to keep for all the times you need to feel something;

then you can let them free again. I wish you knew that loneliness

is a hell of a lot like soft-serve ice…

I don’t even remember your name now, but I do remember how

when we had sex it felt like holding a toothpick in my arms,

or how every time I tried to hug you, all I put my hands around

was open air. You were the missing color of the rainbow

that always bled its sadness like watercolors into the…

I am moving to New York City in the spring.

Yesterday, when I sat stoned in your bed at dusk,

the cicadas rubbed their wings against one another

so hard I was surprised it didn’t generate a current

of electricity from your body to mine. Forgive me

for trying to describe rain and only coming…

You’re having coffee in the morning, one of those mornings where everything is slow and sleepy and you’re still waking up, and then all of a sudden you’re kissing him, the kiss that involves two mouths that are still swollen from the night before, and the early rain is starting outside of the…