You live honeymoon-to-honeymoon,
make long-term commitments
to nothing other than each other,
sweat in springs, hot,
and wander clammy caves.
In a bizarre physiological twist,
I develop relationship-specific eczema.
When it appears, I think it is a scratch from our sex.
Sure it’s become infected, I wash all my bras,
image search until I am paranoid about parasites.
I get 5 prescriptions and none work;
topical slime mocks me.
When you leave town, it leaves with you.
Because I watch a lot of reality TV, I am used to this.
One or more of you will be out.
When our elimination date becomes clear,
I have holes, waiver and worry
about where to house my attachments,
wind play-by-plays and reports (these, I am used to giving you)
like red thread,
but not once do I wish it hadn’t gotten this good.
Before we break up, we take a road trip.
We call it, “Wanting Different Things.”
We decide it is the last stretch of our relationship before we embark,
and we go full-force.
Our last chapter is brilliant; the only part we planned.
We sleep seaside and snack on sour raspberries and perfect red grapes.
We pummel each other with inflatable sharks,
and rub our faces together until the stars fade to orange.
I find love with you; store it in fat cells in my cheeks and arms,
read up on bile salts and crystals; pull amethyst rocks from bins—
unpacked altars from my adolescence, literally.
I found love with you, but it wasn’t mine to find.
You didn’t ask for love, didn’t expect it.
A friend posts a picture from the Glacier Lagoon,
I expect you have been there.
She captions it, “The earth’s energy is powerful here,”
makes a joke about woo and how photos won’t suffice.
This might be the first time I am moved by a photo.