fuck around

I loved a man once.

He died.

I sat with the mother 

of his child 

by a dam and 

she handed me some of him 

in a small jelly jar

with a t-shirt and a note 

he left behind 

for me.

The thing is 

when I smelled the shirt-

inhaled it like a nitrous balloon 

from when I was nineteen,

she asked

if it still smelled like him

I quietly handed it back to her.

She took a turn

and nodded.

Passed it back to me.

His socks are the only pair I can’t lose

he left them behind here

I never wear the shirt

but it’s all in my laundry again

and I am writing this.

It’s not about him.

In the middle of a lover’s funeral

hat on, head bent low, eyes hidden

black pearls, black velvet.

Not the same man.

My love, please

bear witness to me and mine,

all my life,

but I am on borrowed time.

He’s just not mine.

What do I know?

not his birthday

not his middle name

not what made him happy 

(it’s as simple as the sun)

It would be easier if he died

romanticize the “could have been”

for eternity 

not reality

…such a tragedy.

All I will know, is the way he smelled

like it was the only way I could breathe.

I don’t have a problem with sharing

but it is depleting me 

from my life, my air. 

My heart is prepared,

believe me.