I didn’t text you.
I just stared at the message box
until the words pooled like ***** rainwater.
Left it open all night.
That’s not the same thing as wanting you.

I didn’t reach out.
Just opened your last text
like a window in winter
and stood in the draft,
hoping the cold might say something
you wouldn’t.

I didn’t dream of you.
Just lay awake with my hands crossed on my chest
like I was practicing
being the kind of dead you’d miss.

Tonight, I’m romanticizing survival:
eating cold tortellini with a fork I found in my car,
wearing a dress that smells like gin
and someone else’s cologne.

The moon’s out
like it wants to get punched.
The stars are just freckles on a drunk god’s face.
They’re blinking like they’ve seen this before.
The night air slips in where I didn’t shut the door.

I’m not waiting.
But if you called right now,
I’d answer from
the cold part of my bed
and pretend it was a coincidence.

And if you asked what I’ve been up to,
I’d lie with my whole face.
Say, “You?”
like I didn’t write this
with the window still open.