When you leave me on read
I gift you the all-seeing eye, rose quartz and balsa,
and stick it in your back pocket. I go joyriding in a hurricane,
slippers sliding on rain-slick pedals. You toothmark my shins,
callous my fingers for gripping the handlebars too tight.
I shop for sensible shoes at the local DSW, alone.
You wrap the city in smog and bruise the sky on my way back.
I turn your favorite book into erasure poetry,
but then buy another copy. I conjure the night
you facetimed me, drunk, a pixie on your arm.
So much for summer. I pack a suitcase of sundresses
and take the Amtrak to a small town. I hike the Tivoli,
pick at daisies, pretend you’re the pollen
on my fingertips. We paint the hills ochre. I eat dinner
with a stranger as you stream through the open window,
contagious; making apparitions of everything you touch:
the linoleum, his lemonade, my tilapia and broccoli.
I stay at old hotels and you sativa me to sleep. I type endings
into my phone again and again and never send them.
I sink the sharp edges of your conquests into my skin
and cauterize the wounds. I kiss a shaggy brunette
in a shadowed corner of the cloisters,
and I call you when I get home.