…like Romance


You come to
on Saturday mornings in somebody’s bed, with nary a drink between the two,
just a sober evening in, like couples can,
like we couldn’t.

You mark the date
because in a year it will mean something, in a year there will be somebody to call
and he’ll locate your door, like a man,
like I couldn’t.

You bank roll
the weekends with a line of credit that doesn’t expire with the milk in your fridge,
because he’s covering the check again,
like I couldn’t.

You come, too,
and stare up at the ceiling, forgetting a face you struggled so long remembering,
no longer drowning to live inside my plan,
like you shouldn’t.

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