Hey, me again.
This is officially slam poem number 18 about you.
And as is promised every time I put your name to paper,
this is the last poem I will write about you.
Just one..more..sniff.
I guess I should have known you were hard to hold on to.
Your hand on my thigh and your car in drive
and I was always too distracted by one to notice the other.
Your lips wrapped around my collarbone your hand wrapped around the steering wheel.
Your arm like string around my waste just in case.
You never told me the exact date you were leaving for New York.
You didn’t have to.
I figured it out when I felt pieces of myself on the side of the road,
strung from the bumper of your car`
like the cans I wish would be strung from the car we bought together.
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