You used to live
in an apartment
with three other
girls
and I had to laugh
at the
multiple
BRITA
water pitchers
in your fridge.
Once, I did the dishes
while I waited for you to return from
an errand
and your roommate
was embarrassed
and you
were
mortified,
but I just enjoyed
using my elbows
and the way
the warm,
soapy water
slipped and
tumbled over
my
hands.
That was years ago,
now.
I wonder
how
that can be.
I have to say,
ya know,
guys I know—
they wonder
what a
girl
smells like;
what she does to make
herself
smile;
what color
panties
she’s wearing;
or, maybe
just what shade
of amber
her bedside
lamp
burns
before she
sighs,
turns it off,
and hums
herself
to sleep
(me, I know
that even you
drool on your pillow,
sometimes).
But I
wonder what your fridge looks
like
when it’s almost
empty—
what skeleton,
nearly empty
sauces and salad dressings
cling to the
frigid air—
then there’s that juice
you bought
that you’d thought
you would
like,
but
hadn’t.
I don’t know
why
I wonder
about
any of
that.
Maybe it’s
because
I’m getting
used
to
the quiet—
and
that
scares hell
out of
me.
Darkling I listen 