I bought you a car,
You barely flinched.
I told you about that new flavor of ice cream,
I offered you a free acupuncture treatment,
To treat that thing that happens
When you wake up
Grab the sheets
Make drowning sounds;
Then wake up
Turn to me
And make that disgusted face before go back to sleep.
Also, about the acupuncturist — you said “no.”
(I didn’t tell you that, did I?)
I went to the acupuncturist.
I went to that old Asian woman.
I sat in her chair,
I answered some questions,
I got the needles, suctions, electro magnetic stuff
Then I leaned in to kiss her.
(That was awkward.)
Then I cried.
Then she explained in very broken english — “no”
Which was actually extremely clear.
I went home.
And had a dream
You were drowning;
It was the best sleep I’d had in years.
I finally woke up and looked to your side of the bed:
Psychologically stable to field your mass of absence —
I tapped your shoulder
(Never noticed that birthmark)
I nudged your side
(You’ve gotten thinner)
I turned you toward me
(That’s not you)
Another woman is asleep in my bed.
And I wondered how long have you been gone,
And why I hadn’t noticed.