Our conversations are tennis games.
we serve “it’s okay” or “it’s fine”
and score with “it was a misunderstanding.”
we are too stubborn to call for a timeout.
even when i score, i beg for a new round,
because i love being in control.
i wanted to tell you to fuck off.
he left for work in a huff. scuffed his heels,
swung a bag over his shoulder, and slammed the door shut.
you made me make him leave. in his dark eyes, i found you swimming
around his pupil.
we made eye contact.
you lay, sunbathed, lapping his iris.
i hated you. i loved hating you. i loved hearing you say how much i should hate you
just so you could hear me sigh and say:
“there’s nothing wrong, it’s okay.”
i watch him shift into drive
and let the games begin.