you’ve been coming home

mint chapstick and
tobacco pieces stuck to your lips from
those poorly rolled cigarettes.
extra bus fare.
bottom shelf whiskey and
natural laughter
spilling from your breath.
I keep finding

little post-it notes
shoved into your pockets
pasted with someone else’s playlists;
some other guy’s suggestions
on how to lift your spirits
when the depression gnaws your
like a cancer and
you’re too tired to
undress yourself.
I’m still here

following you under the covers,
taking keys from your hand,
leaving fresh water on the
gnawing your earlobes
with some panic and
whispering at your hair
     you’re manic, dear
pinning you down with some
well timed stanzas.

“the boyfriend”


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