I don’t like walking behind smokers

not because of the filth in their air

It’s because I’ve already got a cancer

And it’s in the way that I look at you

I started picking at my nails around 2:30

then wrestled with the happy place

behind my closed eye lids

I was your chocolate, your daily honey

in an owl shaped mug

I’m sick and annoyed with leaf blowers

moving one pile of waste to another place

It doesn’t make sense

You’re in my head like lost eyelashes,

in my gut like parasites

I don’t think I like me

I’m rolling over mounds of hair and dust

Your toothbrush is lying on the edge of my sink

and you’ve been gone for 5 months

My fingers numb at the thought of

removing that old sock from under my bed

The last crumb of you

the last sip of white wine

the way your pillow stays cool the whole night

is how it feels now that I’m dying