Katrina Kaye

I don’t remember your stomach
hanging over the lip of your jeans
as it does as you lean against counter top.

The smile you toss at the pretty
waitress is all sugar and desperation.
And your posture lacks the presence
it had when you stood by my side.

When we were drunk
making out on the hood of my car,
I didn’t realize I was just another
stop on your list for the night
or that all those honeyed words
had already been practiced
on a hundred different ears.

All the glory of your charm
has become childish with the
fading of infatuation.

There are some lovers whose image
remains uncharred along the blueprints of my mind.
Former eyes singed an unyielding blue,
firm abdomen inflected with beads of sweat.
I have the tendency to web the bodies of past loves
with the glory of the ancients.

But yours I watch in slow decline,
and wonder if your hips were that slim when
I wrapped my legs around them.
If the frailty which kept arms at your sides,
was the same weakness of tongue
that kept you from answering my call.

It is only fair that you share the same
somber realization as mine.

I wonder when you look at me are you
seeing the scars for the first time,
has the scent washed from my hair,
the shine from my reflection?

I refuse to wonder how I transformed under the sobriety
of your gaze. Instead, I remember your hands.

Your fingers, long and graceful, like a woman’s.
There is an undeniable beauty in their elegance,
in the simplicity of manicured nails and subtle skin.

“To the ex lover I ran into at the bar,” is previously published in Dear Booze (2022).