He still emails me drunk-
Upset that he doesn’t know who you are and bothered that I’m in love with you,
Misery loves company but it doesn’t live here anymore.
I don’t wake up in the back of my car in the mornings;
Counting the bruises his hands left on my body while he’s passed out in his bed,
Your clothes rest at the bottom of mine now.
Sometimes I wonder how many breaths it took you to breathe life back into me after him.
I lost count.
And there’s a running joke between friends that God made the man bald for a reason-
Vanity didn’t need another accomplice.
Humility had to start somewhere.
I spent hours teaching my hands the language of your soft brown curls.
The hands that rewired my definition of love are next.
He emails me from the same version of himself that peaked in college twenty years ago;
Mad that he still doesn’t know the name of the man I’m in love with.
He can keep searching for a name.
I’ll keep calling you home.
