When He Left

When he left my arm was still sleeping
This premature bed we shared was stirring early
and there was something about this morning that
felt like “you should probably go now.”

He woke up somewhere between
headache and slumber
and snuck out through the path of Sunday sunlight
warming my hardwood like an exit sign.

When he left I reset the alarm for the afternoon.
Thankful that our back door locks from the inside,
grateful that I made it to the bathroom before my
roommates caught the seat up like a question mark.
Stared at that spot on the wall that
knows my eyes too well
and went through my number in my head.
It’s creeping closer to 15 these days.

But I always say it’s 8.
8 is a decent person’s number.
8 is a figure left flat on its side to feel infinity
drip into the morning sunlight, tingle on my spine
knowing next I’ll feel that pit in my stomach
but for now I deserve the warmth of my blanket-
the reminder of how nice my naked body
feels underneath it.

Even though what’s to come is the emptiness of
where he barely was to begin with,
even though my comeback for “you deserve more”
will always be “I know.
So tell me where to fucking find that”
So I fuck. Because that’s fun.
And productive in a way that feels much better than
wanting, waiting.

When he left my lips were numb from
menthol and kissing and the scratches
on my back were proof of last night’s
inertia now scabbing over.

These sometimes lover scars-
I hold them close like heirlooms.
Tell myself that these are what life’s
pleasant wounds are made of,
these are the stories we control creating.

When he left, we didn’t give this night
more weight than it deserved
And so we didn’t exchange numbers
And so we didn’t lean on formalities or goodbyes
And so he didn’t put on his underwear
And so I didn’t worry about getting in touch to return it.

I just hoped he would keep this between us
Because in our lit hurricane of a windstorm
In our need for something refined and raw
We still were.

It was still respectful
It was still between two good human beings
It was still comfortable and mysterious enough
to make it exciting.

And maybe while the momentum of our night
was wearing off into sleep
I held him a little longer than I should have,
dreamt about the brunch we would
linger over in the morning
and kissed him as he drifted off to sleep.

And maybe I’m not really the kind of person that’s okay
with silent slipped out goodbyes.
They linger pungently on my morning
like orange juice after teeth brushing-
hang awkwardly over the air of my afternoon.

And maybe I could have lived with knowing
where you were about to go
A kiss on the forehead or a purposeful nudge to
wake me just long enough to see you leaving.
A sign that would somehow spell out a goodbye,
even though we both know you were
never coming back.