Three days ago I saw you for the first time since I stopped
belonging to you. We smiled and waved and I held
that sick twisting back for 30 steps
until the apartment door shut behind me and I cried
standing in front of my mirror.
“I’m better for being with you,” the new boy says.
Night hazy with champagne and vodka, room
too-hot and packed with too many bodies
on chairs, on the stained carpet, on each other
and loud with canned laughs from the TV we
do not notice anything outside of
the new ways our hands can fit together.
I use this boy’s body like a shovel,”
burying guilt in kisses, replacing the
fit of you and me, as if learning
someone else in layers will cover up
intruding images of former loves, and
I do not sleep alone anymore. His bed holds
memories of a short-haired girl and I’ve tried
to leave you there, too, the way our bodies fit
in sleep so different that maybe I can forget
our jigsaw shape, learn something new.