This neighborhood was mine first. I walked each block twice:
drunk, then sober. I lived every day with legs and headphones.
It had snowed the night I ran down Lorimer and swore Iâd stop
at nothing. My love, he had died. What was I supposed to do?
I regret nothing. Sometimes I feel washed up as paper. Youâre
three years away. But then I dance down Graham and
the trees are the color of champagne and I rememberâ
There are things I like about heartbreak, too, how it needs
a good soundtrack. The way I catch a manâs gaze on the L
and donât look away first. Losing something is just revising it.
After this love there will be more love. My body rising from a nest
of sheets to pick up a strangerâs MetroCard. I regret nothing.
Not the bar across the street from my apartment; I was still late.
Not the shared bathroom in Barcelona, not the red-eyes, not
the songs about black coats and Omaha. I lie about everything
but not this. You were every streetlamp that winter. You held
the crown of my head and for once I wonât show you what
Iâve made. I regret nothing. Your mother and your Maine.
Your wet hair in my lap after that first shower. The clinic
and how I cried for a week afterwards. How we never chose
the language we spoke. You wrote me a single poem and in it
you were the dog and I the fire. Remember the courthouse?
The anniversary song. Those goddamn Kmart towels. I loved them,
when did we throw them away? Tomorrow Iâll write down
everything weâve done to each other and fill the bathtub
with water. Iâll burn each piece of paper down to silt.
And if it doesnât work, Iâll do it again. And again and again andâ
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