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Here's your mistake back
you never made it

here's the cushion
reshaping the couch

your shadow slips under the threshold
you never crossed it

private paradise
is just another storm splitting in space

the sheets you never crumpled
fold up again

the words you spoke
were never spoken

when I walk into the library
I'm not thinking of you

when my heart drains like sand from a shoe
I'm not thinking of you

something was having trouble ending
think of energy's mutations not of you

yesterday I devirginized
my own story

stuck my fingers in and out of my own future
until I broke its promise

today I'm not thinking of you
but of a souvenir tossed on the compost

a smelly time unpetalling
blackening rain and garbage

Connie Deanovich

New American Writing

Number 30, 2012

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