poetry is stupid.

I watch the shadows swim across the wall,
trapped in this little black hole where I picture
my fingers tracing the outline of your knuckles, your veins, your crimson lips.
I remember.
The night you screamed,
and shouted and cursed,
the windows cracked.
My back hit the wall and our faces,
sweat-glazed, inches apart,
heavy breathing, veins pumping, eyes wide and bloodshot,
red spider lines like cracks in the pavement.
Her scent
embedded, enmeshed, entangled with your own.
Her long dancer’s legs tangled in your sheets.
I walked away without a word.
You asked for one last night together,
our bodies stayed apart, shivering
and naked underneath a thin cotton sheet.
I imagined
her fingers intertwined with yours, my eyes open
and staring, counting the white tiles on the ceiling.
You could be anyone, because you are not mine.
You cradled my face in your warm hands,
and whispered,
‘I never promised you anything.’