I could tell you how I have become the worst
possible version of myself in less than a year.
I could tell you how my skin lies fallow,
raw from consecutive summers and the blizzards
that punctuate them.
I could tell you how many nights are etched into my pen,
drunk on the half-life of white roses and champagne
while you snore beside me.
I could tell you how my heart has become
tired of this cold current home-grown.
I could tell how much time I’ve wasted
trying to get this car to start before I realised it was
out of fuel: much more than Jon Snow wasted on the wall.
I could even tell you about the spiders on the base of my neck
when you rage in/past/through.
I could tell you about the scars that litter
my paper-folded crow’s feet, hidden expertly
behind sunglasses and a patchwork irony of habit.
I could show you the raw inversion of flesh upon flesh,
a bloody lactation of piecemeal promises
staining the sheets I bought in your wake.
I could tell you that I still remember your number after all this time
and that sometimes I confuse it with mine.
But I won’t. You don’t deserve that.