"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.