Your picture hangs
like the modern art you
felt impulse to buy
when I was hungry
and jobless
and full of remorse for the
cross country trip
I just took that
took everything of
mine.

It is yours.
It is giant and abstract.
I find it encroaching and
ugly; the impediment to my
nightly nacho habit
   we have to cut back
when we could not afford luxuries,
so I stopped buying snacks
and you stopped using kindness,
yet somehow we afforded this.

It is lined in blue and black,
steel, and you left it nailed
over the armoire you swore
you would pry from my hands
when we split, but  in a
moment of tenderness on our
last sleepy afternoon together
sobbing into the necks of each other,
you finally felt the soft marsh
I had become,
the miracle you had left,
and gave it to me.
     you can keep this

It is
a little blurry
and crooked,
wavy-lined
and dramatized
in my retina
and like it,
I’m still hanging around
waiting for your return.
Waiting for you to
ask for it all back
to show me
how much I will truly regret
when it all
sinks in;
how much I abandoned,
and how much I
hoped I would
get.

What did I get from
all of this?

“letters to exes”

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