punkadixon

Lost Luggage

Perhaps I am to blame.
But there were good times, too,
before the tears and careful stitching.

Remember Chicago? Snowed in,
my hands searching your pockets,
your arms slung over my shoulder, keeping you close.

I've heard of this sort of thing
but never expected it to happen to me.
While I sit waiting, checking the door,

you're spread across a table
with a stranger in some backroom
in Paris, Pyong-yang, or Poughkipse

who can't wait to get his hands on you,
already picturing the intimate contents
I handled so carefully only this morning.

There were signs, of course.
We traveled less, you hung around the apartment
all day, apathetic

even when I would lay you across the mattress,
silently filling you with tiny pieces of me.