As I sit here working to erase the you that lies in the smell of your neck in brownies with ice cream in the shape of your big toe the constellations connect the dots with a child we started that never came we end with a child that is you can not be the father the biological bond outweighs the “love” that never existed in evenings spent under cover bunnies secret caves it was always incorrect to say lovers imply love friends friendly bond mistaken for life partner cannot say the words real it will become better this way in diet lose the weight the poundage of lovely lies wrapped in your impenetrable impossible impersonal heart surgery needed stubborn to implant cannot survive in hostile environment
Yani Perez is an Ecuadorian born; Brooklyn raised writer. She is currently an English instructor at Kingsborough Community College and Long Island University. Her work can be found in Brooklyn Paramount, By the Overpass, and Having A Whiskey Coke With You.
Lovely poem, Yani!
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