We let the dishes pile up for a week,
though we only have three plates,
thirteen spoons, seven forks, and
a dull bread knife between the two of us.
At least you're meticulous about the trash.
I dent the couch and stare at the tv
as you slide snake-like over the armrest.
On our second date, you wore a knit cap,
cropped hair gelled into soft spikes.
I wore black knee-length boots
and a mini-skirt, got my car towed
from the mortuary lot, but
stalked you anyway from
the impound on Potrero and 16th,
upstairs to your haunted flat on Guerrero.
Now we share a one-bedroom
in the suburbs, discuss mortgages and donors.
You grow your hair out; I tell my parents.
I admit: I have written a poem
for each one that came before you,
prided myself on being the first to leave.
At our kitchen table, I tuck
them all into a manila folder
in perfect chronological order,
file them behind our electric bills
and product warranties.
Against the lamplight,
I notice again and again
the arc of your cheekbone,
the smallness of your hands,
the scallop curve in the small of
your back where my life
rests up against yours.