When he leaves,
he leaves a space,
a big or little airless place
that begs to be filled.
A part of the weekend that says
What are you going to do now?
And you think if you fill it up
So you work and clean and call
and cook and write and drink
and eat and sleep and shop
and say This is fine this is fine.
You can do this.
Laugh and go out drinking
with your friends when it’s over.
Call everyone you know and say
Shrug, clear your throat.
It’s kind of like losing a dog.
You’ll miss him
but maybe it’s better this way.
His friends are still your friends
and they watch you
because they send him messages
about how you’re doing.
Sometimes they figure now is their chance
and they tell you they’ve always had it bad
Be careful with his friends.
So cut your hair
and learn to play guitar.
Walk fast and yell back
at bike messengers who tell you
what they’d do to you
if you were theirs.
Stop wearing his coat and sell his CDs.
White out his name in your address book.
Buy new perfume.
Turn the pain into something you can use.
And when it feels like you’re imploding,
like you’re the only one
who wants to lie down in the street,
know that there will always be girls
who stream through this city
with their mouths slightly open
trying to breathe
and waiting to be kissed.