NATIONAL POETRY MONTH: Day 3

The Last Five Signs That You Are Alone
 

your eyes never know where to look on trains  
other peoples’ public kisses taste like charred doorframe, in your mouth
you are the only person watching sunrise from the brooklyn bridge on a thursday
the toilet seat is cold
apple sauce jars go unopened
post-it notes stay stuck to walls, constant reminders that you are alone

you forget how hard it is to fall asleep alone
after sleepy whispers once faded beneath late night elevated trains
now the closet goes unopened
and you, afraid its contents will seep through the cracks, like your secretive mouth
bury your indecencies under comforters and leave the window open. cold--
but the only way to reach thursday

you thought you saw his shadow in a puddle last thursday
it was that same pyramid-shape as love in a pea coat but you were alone
and, without mittens, there is nothing to shelter your hands from the cold
like the way everything goes ‘local’ after midnight, most of all trains
you put your finger to your mouth
the shape between your lips wordless and unopened

as the sun sets along the hudson, your eyes remain unopened
you come home late, to make a pot of tea and wait for the end of thursday
gingerly bringing the cup to your mouth
turning it so you can see ‘All men’s misfortunes spring from their hatred of being alone’
you bring a thermos and read ancient philosophers on trains
as a distraction from the cold

you imagine him most when you’re cold
pretending you long for the bag of doritos you’ve left unopened
claiming warmth from the newly abandoned seats on trains
not like the seats in your apartment, where he sat last thursday
assuring you, you would never be happy alone
“shut your mouth”

the last time his words reached for your mouth
their sentiments came out cold
like his side of the bed, now that you sleep alone
and the drawers that go unopened--
as unfinished as every thursday
since you watched his smile disappear on a crowded d train

you spend too much time training your mouth to go without ‘us’ on Thursdays
when singular-pronouns feel cold next to the unopened opportunities
that you can’t help but feel alone