Tanks and Blanks

A red ache in my fingers
to count the moles on your back, you
asleep, so slowly asleep.
You roll to your side, words
as coins, heavy, but with sharp sounds
when placed together.

I removed myself from life
only for you--
Waiting for you to stop by the bar,
my pulse, thick and wasteful.
Finally, you entered, pale and long,
reeking of the end of the night
maybe even my old man, darling,
too many times you mostly go.
I was prepared. I knew. But I still
shook at the shock of when
at the end of every day
that has ever mattered, you left.

I can still hear the clank
when nobody is speaking to me.

So I put my head
on the bar, shifted sideways like a stream
of water, desperate for something to tumble into,
my fingers shaking like they were threads
tied by a child to my hands,
something fumbling around
in an organ I cannot pronounce
and suddenly, nasty, hard I vomited all over
your least favorite shirt--
spit latching to my chin and fingers dripping
with myself, so obvious and wet,
dizzy from the light that came off of you.

I can taste how much I will miss you.