My Ex-Poet

I. Sex as verse

What if sex 

were poetry

crafted from lust, love, flesh,

and breath?

Me, I’ve written my fair share. 

In my twenties,

beat poetry:

staccato and strange.

Aspiring for experimental and

taking itself far

too seriously. 

(And perhaps too often,

a limerick:

smile-worthy, anonymous,

forgettable.)

For a long time,

Hallmark poetry.

Meaningful, sweet.

Predictable. 

And then

(now),

with you. 

Both of us writers,

stanzas 

composed themselves.

A couplet when 

I called you beautiful 

and it broke you 

open.

A quintet as you

chased my pleasure

until

I demanded more.

We filled 

pages.

Each verse its own 

cadence, tripping through

wonder

tenderness 

delight.

And skin.

Delicious skin.

Lines drenched in

resonance and

connection.

Silence glistening

with sacredness:

breath, sweat, you, me.

II. Four Endings

From mid-November to early February

you were truly mine.

Not exclusively, but completely.

But when I said I wanted

to be ‘only yours,’ 

it scared you. You withdrew. 

My heart broke. 

Our first ending. 

A short time later 

we met for sushi.

You told me

you and she had reconciled. 

You were so happy 

she wanted you back. 

You said 

we could stay together.

We were all polyamorous, 

after all. 

But I knew 

there wasn’t room.

I stayed while

my heart broke.

Our second ending. 

For your birthday,

I planned 

quirky and kitsch

with the whole day 

together. 

You had other plans

but waited to tell me

until a few days before.

My heart broke.

That annoyed you.

I broke again.

Our third ending. 

A short time later,

I reached for you– 

shared something charming. 

You were terse. Polite. 

My heart broke.

I planned a true ending. 

We met for sushi.

It became clear you, too, 

had planned a true ending,

but you struggled to say the words.

I thought of saying them for you,

to make it easier. 

But no. 

I made you do it.

I was tired of making things

easier for you, 

my heart too broken 

to break further. 

Our fourth ending. 

III. Sad Knocked

Sad knocked, uninvited.

She wore your face.

I let her in.

We cuddled on the couch,

spoke of everything

and nothing. 

She recited your 

poetry for me.

The crinkle of onion-skin 

sounded of memory.

I fell asleep in her arms 

and awoke alone.

But yesterday, 

I felt her breath on my cheek.

A beautiful boy

sang for me:

Lyrics about a girl

not me

dripped from the side

of his charmingly crooked mouth.

With the final chord, 

he smiled shyly,

mumbled apologies,

even though I praised.

Sad was there

whispering 

a susurration of remembering:

I called you beautiful, 

once. Before 

she wore your face. 

Before I shrank 

to keep you

and lost anyway.

Before I forgot 

to listen 

to my Self.

That fleeting

and forever

you were beautiful 

and already mine. 

IV. A text I didn't send

I have been rereading 

our text conversations from 

fourteen months ago. 

I’m working on an essay 

about love declarations, and

I was trying to put myself 

back in that moment when 

we said ‘maybe’ and ‘probably’ 

to one another.

I had forgotten how effusive

we both were

(How could I forget?),

how tender. 

You called me ‘dearest.’ 

I called you ‘darling.’ 

We were both so hungry 

for recognition—

to be seen, to be known.

To say ‘here is my heart, 

it is bruised but 

still beating,’

and hear the other reply, 

breath full of resonance:

‘you’re beautiful.’ 

I don’t know that I can capture: 

the wit and the flirt and the care and the chemistry,

all of it now wrapped in grief,

carefully stored in archival boxes 

where I try not to be

angry with you for withdrawing, so instead I am angry 

with myself for staying. 

Perhaps it is still too soon 

for me to write this essay.