When I soaked black lentils on the counter at the same time you marinated tempeh on the counter, I pretended you were my friend. I hope your meal was as delicious as mine. I dodged you in the kitchen as well as I could, no longer crying about your leaving. I’d memorized your departure date,
I always felt like the real you was deep inside you, so precious and beautiful and good. I believed in that one. But I think I was mostly making that you up. Maybe there are many of you. That’s what you told me. But I don’t want to talk to this one, in these three
I don’t think I ever told you, my spouse, or anyone that where you live is part of what I loved about you. Background that never gets mentioned but sets the scene for everything. I’m crying tonight about the feral chickens I’m not going to see, the lush plants you’ll never teach me, the walks
I was watching a poetry reading online, with several readers. A lady I don’t know read poems about her husband dying unexpectedly in a car wreck. In her between-poem chatter, she said, “Grief is a solitary journey. We have to do it alone, in our own way.” I stopped the video and started to cry
Hey, been thinking about how you gave so much to me. It was amazing. Explaining to a friend, I was emotional, crying about loving you, missing you, and the things you didn’t talk to me about–questions unanswered, topics avoided. She summed up what she heard, “I’m sorry he was emotionally unavailable.” I was like–what?! I
“My mouth is sore from you fucking it,” I said, as we cuddled after sex. I said it more like a purr, full of feelings. the sex He visited me in the bedroom. I wasn’t on my phone, reading, crafting, or writing. I was just lying there, thinking about sex. He stood by the side
I felt angry, which is ok–any feeling is ok with me, as long as I can feel it and move through it. Anger tells me something is wrong–usually that I’m not getting what I need, or something wrong is happening, to me or another person. It really hurt me, to be dropped by someone I