a waitress gives us a look as we throw punches at each other at Anthony's; (a lot of endings in a run on poem)

this week i spilled $40 tequila on my carpet

and watched you rip up my old papers as you told me it was therapeutic.

stolen wine turns into a single, accidental kiss

that feels almost too comfortable.

in retrospect it feels like a final ending:

sad, kind,

and real.

my mother showed me her legs with skin that lacked elasticity more than ever

"getting old" she told me.

after frowning at her, she says "we just have to learn to accept it"

but she doesn't realize that it's not the aesthetic of sagging legs that makes me sad;

it is having our own skin remind us

that we are dying.

last night you wouldn't tell me why you drank a bottle of wine

along with painkillers;

instead you blew smoke in my face, slowly

while I stared at the full moon over lake whatcom

trying to understand displaced affection.

today my father bought me a large glass jar to put flour in

and entrusted me his ex wife's number

he told me to call her if "anything ever happened to him"

I frown again.

I run into you on the bus home

and after, I collapse on the grass

hugging an empty jar

and watching the wind

blow dandelions at eye level

happy for once

simply because I know you

(maybe that is finally enough)