If I stay awake, would you fall straight past
my lips to the parts of my body
that would tell you truly—I can’t help it—
I’m here with you for good. Even
when you pushed life-panic onto me
for hours, then said, “I want to fuck,”
and I turned around and let you,
and you joked afterward that
we’d probably still break up.
You smiled and I said low,
“Could you not do that
after we just had sex?”
You stopped and nodded
in a not entirely convincing way.
It’s almost two years later and
I’m still here with you, for good. Even
though you left me two nights later, let
the jagged edges of every neglected thing
in my life curl in on me, your hands failing
to reach out and strum me calm like the instrument
you loved. The last time we met, you confessed
your worry that every wrong thing that would ever happen
to me after you would be your fault. I pled
my strength, but to be honest, I don’t remember
correcting you. And now, I don’t want to tell you
that it’s 3 in the morning and I’m writing this,
but it’s 3 in the morning and I’m writing this,
spooked into insomnia and, not knowing
what else to turn to, I’ve turned to you,
stubborn memory living out your days
without me. I run smooth lines over your frame
and justify thinking of you, if only for the reason
that any bump in the night is not as bad
as everything else we turned into.
My sleep-cracked fear could never be as real
as that last scare: your smile without the light.
-- Megan Kellerman
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