I Can’t Remember Your Middle Name
We shook our fists
when our pens ran out.
And I wrote you letters
From, not Love,
but pretense of what was.
And I kept the flowers
you bought me
for my birthday, or I’m sorry, or happy
something I don’t remember anymore
but insisted on preserving
in a clear vase on my bedside table.
We went to dinner, the waitress forgot to light the candles,
and you checked your watch for the time.
I made a tourniquet and wrapped it around our wrists pressed together,
but we bled through the bandage.
Is the hourglass half full
or half empty?