this is what I think about when I think about you:
your honda smells like stale cigarette smoke on the way to lone star comics on a sunday.
you are red in the face drunk at a karaoke bar,
singing “shout” by tears for fears.
your fiancé says it’s depressing.
I skip dinner and walk upstairs with a handful of gummy bears at ten pm.
you laugh. “holding yourself over till tomorrow?”
we recite our prayers every night.
you take off my cross when you put me to bed so I won’t choke.
I pretend not to notice you pull your hand out of your underwear
when I come in to tell you that cops were at the door,
the second time that year.
on the first anniversary of my mother’s death,
you don’t understand why I care.
your wife storms out of the house and says that she isn’t coming back until I’m gone.
you tell me I should leave.
I cry when the first time you say,
“make sure you eat today.”