Two Tuesdays have passed

since our grim anniversary, and now

it is hump day again, and you

still swear the glass

is half empty, and I keep pouring.

Like the monsoon,

I won't quit.

 

Tears move you alright.

Still you stay, statuesque.

Your fault

lines parallel my

rock solid alibis.

I am still bursting

in on the scene in full cry,

gull-like, hovering on the wind,

a little at sea, a little beach-bound,

indecisive as a brushfire,

twice as volatile.

 

Bonding was never easy with you:

locking lips as chancy as a slow dance.

Back seat bump and grind, a tourniquet,

embracing to discard with pleasure.

 

I can still hear my awkward silences lingering,

nicotine stains of nepenthe

washing over the fingers of my mind

as they strangle dark thoughts

into paroxysms of blinding rage.

 

I was never there.

I still do not see you in his arms,

do not hear you lying stiller

than stone, do not

feel the lash of your fault lines

across the San Andreas contours

of my broken back, and I tremble

​

not a whit

to think what storms

my calm may conjure.