You gave me a bouquet of
weeds once as I was drinking
my third cup of coffee.
You had picked them from
our backyard.

You were smiling with teeth;
big, and I loved
you.

The morning following was not as
pristine, or worthy of
photographic memory,
but I don’t
always choose what stays,
what goes, what lingers
in between the building of
new thoughts.

I had walked down the stairs slowly
because I had bent over in a way
that tore something inside of me,
and I mustered up enough breath
to say: It feels like I pinched a nerve,
and am having trouble breathing.
What should I do?

And you looked up on your way out
the front door, and
said: I don’t believe you.

Someone else drove me to
the doctor,
and that doctor prescribed me
Flexeril for the
pain.
You came home later
and attempted to justify
why you always felt
deceived by
me.
And I lay numb
in bed, relieved
of feeling.

“Thursday”

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