“There is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love.”
I’m staring at my own face in a speckled mirror,
down the red carpeted hall, past the statue of general whosiwhat,
the fifth floor of a home I know not,
tries to jiggle the handle,
hundred dollar locks keep them out, so I can stare.
i scratch at the slight curve of my nose,
which you always admired, or promised you did,
when I’d yell from my own bathroom,
but don’t you think it’s crooked?
you’d protest prettier,
i was prettier than perfect.
My discontent your greatest battle,
until finally you took shelter from the war.
But this fifth floor bathroom’s full access
even to your Swiss retreat,
this bathroom and a few glasses of wine,
my crooked nose in the speckled mirror,
locks to keep out strangers,
like I kept out you,
like you were never mine.