A Word for Living Creatures

someone mentions your name
and i remember
your words
turning my skin pink

The song you avoid
begins to play. 
You would change
the radio station to another
one, any one, but you can’t.
The song is on
the loudspeaker
at the local coffee shop.
You have no say
about what songs (no,
song, it’s singular,
it’s only this song)
are and are not allowed.
You hear it
and are reminded of -
you’re reminded of him
but not him, not him exactly, 
more a ghost (a specter?), 
not a silhouette -
he’s been gone too long
to have a distinct form -
something murkier, something 
with a slight edge
you rub your thumb 
against, then wonder
at the cut, the blood, the
return to the coffee shop, 
you murmuring sorry 
to the barrista who says sorry, 
too, thinking you’re upset 
with your order, the coffee has 
burnt your tongue, and 
you nod, of course, 
because you can’t,
you can’t say anything.

I will have no regrets,
I will have no regrets,
I will have 
no you.
I will not let you ruin 
my birthday again. 

Again, this memory:
reaching for your hand.
You, flinching, pulling
away, back. A look
in your eyes. One
I still can’t interpret.
Loathing? Disgust?

Silence. Driving to
your house 
and leaving, not
what I wanted,
not what I wished
(what I wished:
a kiss, maybe two),
leaving and knowing
you were going
to meet her, leaving
and knowing and not
knowing what that meant,
not connecting the dots,
not fully, not yet.

Leaving and going
home by myself,
not what I wanted,
not what I wished,
leaving and going
home to my bed,
my pillow, my gag,
home to my thoughts
(What did I do wrong?
Why were you acting
the way you were?),
to my wish
I wish I hadn’t wished,
to this wish -

I wish not to wish
for you, I wish
to remember you:
liar, coward,
thief, cheat, you.