"Parallels" by Robert J. W.
You used to
text me from
across the room at
parties, saying you
were tired but
didn't want to
leave the
embrace of my
presence.
I looked up from my
dying phone and
watched your
pale eyes go from
ovals to triangles to
something indescribable.
(I've written
a million poems about
that shape, never
able to
replicate it.)
At dawn, we would
walk the
streets named after
questions, letting
liquor slip from our
lips down into
each other's throats and
we'd cry at the
cardboard moon until
we became so dry that we
almost shattered on the
sidewalk.
One night, you
slipped your fingers
down my spine, and
countless gates to
countless universes opened
in front of us.
With your pocket full
of death threats, you
collapsed through them,
never to be
seen again.
I've been stumbling
drunk through each
parallel, trying to
find you, putting your
shape-shifting eyes on
every woman I love but
it only leaves
stigmata on their
irises.
I'm leaving these
stained words on the
sidewalk where we
last wept
in the hope that
you return
here
someday
looking for
me
and we can
crumble in the
moonlight
one
more
time.