Thinking of you like the bug bites on my legs.
Tomorrow we are supposed to turn back the clocks.
Maybe I will pretend that I haven’t loved you
and the extra hour of sleep is my reward for attempting.
I order pancakes at that diner we loved every Sunday,
try not to look for you. Living alone has its perks,
I guess. The cat gets fed. The plants are watered.
But I do not always eat dinner. I do not vacuum regularly.
Sometimes I live off of a handful of cherries,
practice tying the stems with my tongue for hours.
I leave love letters for my mailman, who’s married.
All those times we saw each other undress.
Your mother still calls and asks where you are.
I tell her nowhere but what I mean is everywhere.