You never did
and you never will
again.

We roasted under the sun for hours
waiting for a bus that refused to come,
recounting every good day we ever had
and some of the bad,
too.
Saturn in orbit
was our guide home,
but we’d no place to rest our heads,
so we spun apart.

Six years later, your father has the mark of Cain
upon his lungs,
and though you’ve been sharing another man’s bed,
you call me.
Who else would understand,
who else would listen,
who else would care?

You want so bad
for our story to have a sequel
in which your arc
has a resolution,
but in the cinéma vérité that is our love,
you get no absolution
and your father has no poignant last words.
Still you keep calling.

I don’t answer
and I never will
again.