You bought me a 10 dollar pizza pie, lounged on my bed,
picked the pepperoni off and ate it last.
You said I would be invited to your wedding.
You learned to sleep with an arm always holding me in, woke up
when I moved, asked, “Are you leaving now?”
You promised we would meet again.
You said it was timing that was off, though we had a great time.
You kissed me until it was nighttime somewhere else, languid, rushed, mouth
open, mouth hungry; but it was my words, you said, you would miss the most.
So, I guess I’m not the best kisser. I could try to be the best poet.
At least there would be something then. What makes me any different
from the others? I push the millions of words floating in my head out
against whatever space there is left for you.
When after a year, I am still sleeping alone, my friend asks:
what makes you any different from the others?
The one with eyelashes glinting in lamplight.
The one who took advantaged of me, talked to me every night for a year,
tells his wife now that he never loved me.
The one who bought me dinner and took me dancing
and he swears, I am the one.
The one who remembered the month my father died.
The one who begged me not to kiss anyone else.
The one who told me, gently, “I could have been anyone else.”
Do you want the real answer or the famous cop-out?
Of course, there have been others, and still my mouth remembers the shape
of your last name. We were so tied up in sex,
I keep masturbating that same way.
I’m most afraid of repeating this so often, it loses all meaning.
You are the you’s every “I love you” is about.
If we believed in God, this is the truth we have to pay for.
If we believed in love, this is the poem that came true.