On your birthday I think about calling,
but I go for the text message — and nothing
comes back. No surprise; you never showed
any sense of urgency, or was on time for anything —
like on the night you ended us, you were an hour
late for what was our last dinner together
at the restaurant where we met. The waiter
asked about dessert right after you gave me
the drop. I said yes — hoping this was some sort
of joke you had planned before professing
your undying love for me — while I stuffed my face
in celebration. But this was no joke: there would be
no perfect house with a picket fence high enough
to keep out the nosy neighbors, but not too high to
discourage the occasional visit from the cool ones.
But now we’re toast; the house nonexistent — like
you always seemed to be at crunch time. You offered
to pay for everything that night; the goodbye kiss
of guilt. I left before the bill was paid – the house
on fire with secrets I’ll take to every grave but yours –
no need to check my phone, no reason for dessert
