I left pomegranate stains on your fingertips.
I spilled yeast into your kitchen drawers so that you would always think of my hands kneading your muscles like dough when you came home from a long day of work.
I engraved my name into your back with bitten fingernails so that she would know I was there first.
I hope that when she kisses you, she tastes my lips.
I hope that when she touches you, she feels exactly where my hands held you.
I blew smoke into your mouth so your lungs would remember me 30 years from now.
I crushed tea leaf into your bed sheets so that you would still smell our mornings together even after I was gone.
I let tears drop onto the pages of the book you let me borrow,
hoping that maybe you would see that I cried at the same parts as you;
hoping that maybe you’d realize we aren’t all that different.
I dripped red wine on your rug near the window so that when you look out and think of her,
you’ll only remember getting drunk and lying on the floor with me.
I left red lipstick on all of your napkins to remind you of all the dinners we ate on your living room floor.
I spoke to you in metaphors about love even though you were a literalist.
I never actually said “I love you.”
Instead I said “baby, don’t forget your jacket.”
I poured ink onto your scraped knees so that years later you would look down during prayer and
beg God to give me back to you.
I am sorry,
but my mother always taught me to prepare for natural disasters.