I found your number today,
the one for your townhome in Maine;
do you like the shore?
Have you watched the silver water
wash upon the sand, leaving in its wake
the dark traces of a lonely Poseidon
who seeks to leave his brand upon
those who left him
when the eons passed and we wised up
to his antics
and more blatant cruelty?
Maybe I'll call you,
but I want you to know I'm with
someone, and he's kinder to me
than you ever were. He took me to
the Pier, where we rode the Ferris Wheel,
and I thought of you calling me a child
when I was one,
but you had me unrepentant;
I'll admit I'm bitter,
but are you seeing someone? Someone
younger? Someone who worships
the lines you transcribe to paper from
the contours of shadows, the gentle fold
of cloth over the wooden chair I gave you,
but then you told me, I need this for my portfolio?
Do you have the keepsakes you stole
from my bedroom, like the sweatshirt emblazoned
with my high school's mascot?
Do you know you're the one I hate
to talk about? Or are you
busy, saying things about a war
you don't understand,
smoothing your half-witted interpretations
with words that draw the tongue into
impressive tangles, that leave the smiling
dumber than they were when they met you,
that I fell for before I started reading
and realized you must hate newspapers?
is smeared and wavering, tall and dysfunctional
because you could never read it. Your nine
is like a seven, and maybe you didn't
want me to remember,
you went to baptize yourself
in the brine,
leave your infected sins aching
forget you made promises
and fuck someone who doesn't
who can't ask how pathetic you were
when I said I was leaving—
or maybe I'll call you after dinner.
After I've had a drink,
when I remember that I loved you
and skin looks the same
in the dark,
where I'll meet you
if you ask.