Vomit, Take Two

I.

Granola doesn't taste quite the same
slathered in a pumpkin sweet blanket,
but something's missing
and water won't fill up the hole.
Drink a liter or two a day, but you'll only
drown in your own light.
Water leaves, granola falls away,
and at the end, I still have this sickly sweet feeling
that I'm losing air, and you're taking it away.


II.

Can I braid your hair? Left over right over left,
and I'll practice on a friendship bracelet,
make sure I'll get it just right.
Always going down, never bringing up. Never learned
to show my face to the sun, and your hair
is so shiny in the light.
It pours down into the holes between braids
and maybe gets lost or trickles down
to the hairband.
I don't wash my face yet,
but you do. It's matte. Mine shines,
but it's not from inside like you.

III.

I want to sit in the living room with you
and feel the scratchy throw blanket behind us,
but not when we lean forward to get food.
I want the light to be dim,
just like it always is in the house --
never enough to see clearly, makes me want
to go outside and run and jump.
But you're inside, together.
A sandwich I made for you,
on a napkin we'll burn together later,
and though you hardly look at me because
the television is on and it's House again,
I know you'll turn to me on commercial
and kiss me, and maybe share some mustard.


IV.

Stacked in corners, half full,
spilling over with what we once cherished.
Yours labeled with the initials
that I once traced over my notebook: TR,
TR, TR, TR, TR, over and over, I took your R.
But now the piano's yours so I can keep
the wardrobe and the dining room table.

Do you remember our Valentine's brunch?
The only brunch we were together --
eggs that ran water onto the plate
and made the toast soggy, but the bacon
was burnt and crumbled to the touch.
But you smiled and I wasn't hungry anymore,
because I felt full and satisfied knowing that
for just that moment, that morning,
I could make you happy.

Now where will the cardboard boxes go?
You haven't told me who she is.
I haven't told you who he is, either, but my
boxes won't go to him. I'm leaving him, too.
I figure the sweaters and your smile
would clog up his life too much and make us sigh and drown.
I promise I won't try to find your address,
just don't forget to clean the crumbs from your toaster.