You cannot blame him for the words
you no longer believe in.
The nightmares, the startling awake,
the enveloping fog around your head
even after daylight has swept in.
It isn’t as if he’s done this to you.
People change. Sometimes slow
like seasons, sometimes quick, like
the sound of a coin hitting the floor.
Tails, you say. There’s a reason
you’re not the gambling type.
The too much talking,
the not enough talking.
You start to write a letter
but can’t get past “goodbye,”
and then falter again when deciding
where in his bedroom to leave it.
Inside one of his work shoes,
in another language. Something is wrong
here. Someone unfolded something
the wrong way. God, how you’re tired
of the “wrong way.” How do you sink
the boat in winter, brush the snow
off the pier? There’s only one answer.
You tried very hard.