emotional politics

you trace your name
in condensation and
tell me i was prettier
before i tried on personalities
like clothes in a
thrift store.
 
the sun sets behind a
building in new york city.
 
we’re still buried
under seaweed-stained
sheets of paper,
choking on half-forgotten
memories and letters
that never made it
to the mailbox.
 
i press my toes to the
edge of the fireplace
where the tiles are
a comfortable shade of warm.
 
you go through a list
of things you’ll never regret,
and when you get to the part
about leaving me behind,
i stand and disappear
behind a wooden door.
 
the air in december doesn’t
cleanse our souls
and i don’t know what
stops the world from spinning.