Out the open window,
the December sky is black as a charred log,
the moon a silver ax wedged deep in its side.

I lay on the floor by the three-legged stool,
tights rucked around my ankles,
my skirt hiked and
wrinkled.

I watch planes the size of
silverware take wing,
I block one out with my thumb,
one eye closed.

He had to go somewhere-
in all the deafening pleasure,
he heard his phone ring and
ran out,
leaving me warm and
curled on the kitchen tile.

Selfish tears pooling in my hair,
I hear your voice in the empty room;

Don't fish for sympathy from the night,
it is lonelier than you will ever be.

Don't look for pity in the stars,
they are too beautiful to think of anyone but
themselves.

Don't waste time missing me,
I certainly don't waste any time on you.

I sit up and swallow.

Reality tastes bitter, like
licorice.