Two Weeks

I put my lighter away in the drawer

for the fifth time this year

(it’s only March).

It cooed I’ll see you in two weeks.

No, you bastard. I’m done with you.

But we both knew there was a reason

I didn’t throw it in the trash.

·

Again, it’s been two weeks,

so I take the slow walk

past the Methodist Church and

show up in your living room.

You look up at your calendar,

Oh, two weeks already?

reaching for our pill bottle.

Yes, I say, but I’m not staying.

I just wanted to see if

you were dead yet.

You take two.

With a smirk you retort, I’m trying,

but not hard enough, I think.

I’m leaving you.

This time it’s for good,

I tell you.

·

Well, it’s been three months,

and my nerves still shake for you.

We first met in the waiting room.

They told you,

You have two weeks.

I figured I could collapse with you

among Benzedrine and cigarettes for that long.

You can sleep when you’re dead,

but stubborn as hell,

you’ve developed a living slumber.

Now, I’m just trying to keep awake.