the stories we leave half written pt. 2

last night,
i sat alone at the bar. i lied and said i was going to the movies
because buying two hours of alone time
would also buy me the slim chance of running into you.
we’ve done this before
and we’re no good at it,
but it’s the only way we can function.
it’s the only solution until we can think of something better,
like being honest but who tells the truth these days?
we’re addicted to hope, to the rush of getting away with murder
washing our hands of the blood
before we slip back into bed
not with each other.
and i think of the high it gives us,
playing cat and mouse in the dimly lit place
where the wooden tables are sticky with soda
and my glass is stuck
almost telling me to “leave, go home.”

but i can’t. you won’t. and we’ll play a little while longer
until one of us bursts into flames
and the other can bring our ashes to our loved ones,
write a note and leave it on the steps
of the apartment we don’t share with each other.
it will read:
“i could only give flesh and bone but never my heart,
for that belonged to someone else.”

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