I am hurt here: waiting
the mind drifts into
no known unknowns
I remember the curve of your hip,
I think
the light bending up against the
hairs on your forearm
you
had everything, I had
my writing
the endless pages in endless novels
speaking wholly to the unknown
but at least it was honest
now I contort under the
heavy weight of the plates shifting
and squirm in my chair at the mere mention
of your name but then am reminded
constantly of life or of the strange
far away memory of a life shared
communally,
broken and divided into even pieces so that
at the end of the day you
could walk away with what was yours and
I mine
but there was still no way that
we were even.