Back when I knew her, she hated absence. Felt deep the nights
of blank screens, empty beds. Loved a dude who couldn’t love back.
Loved the sound of painting handprints on asses.
She lacked the volition for creativity;
as in, she dreamt of making Steampunk vests
only to stare hard at her hands.
Her car hated hills even more than she did,
leaked fluids like vanilla coke spilling from cans-
her favorite drink that she shared
with him, with me. The call that I ignored echoed
and back then I couldn’t include her
in things I could visually see, after he texted me
“I fucked her” and we all suffered for it.
“Liz, I’m sorry” she said in my ear “Please talk to me”
I didn’t until much later, kept
a certain space between us like the bag
protecting the bread. Back then, I didn’t understand why she tried,
why loving the same person meant we couldn’t be friends.
Back, before we loved him,
we laughed at the Chicken Fuc