Cento of Past Lovers

Hold your hand up
like a mitten; I’ll show you
where I lived in the state
of Michigan. Should I bite
you harder? Christine,
I wish you hadn’t
lied to me. I don’t think
I’ve ever seen you wear pants.
I’ll buy the whiskey.
I imagined that by now
you would have dumped me
and started dating Colin.
I want to leave
New York. I don’t think
it’s the right time for a dog.
Of course I’d date you
even if you didn’t have teeth.
I don’t drink that much.
In my dream, we were riding
a rollercoaster into the state
of Maine. You’re going
to get better. I once thought
I would like to marry you.
Do you think we should
move to California? It’s only
a little blood. Why don’t you
talk about your father more?
I wrote you a letter.
The tension between you
and your mother makes
me uncomfortable. You can’t
always help me find a job. Your
calves are frameable. We can’t
get a dog. I don’t think I want
to be in any of your poems.
It feels weird to go out,
just the two of us, going
out, drinking? It feels
weird. Someday we will
attend a gala. Christine,
the teapot is boiling. When
my best friend told me
his mom had cancer, I didn’t
flinch but I let him cry
on my shoulder. Read
Guy de Maupassant to me.
I wrote a song about you.
In bed. You overcooked the eggs.
I bought you that stupid
Japanese stuffed tooth
thing. God, you and your
obsession with juice.
Do you still love him?
Was I really sleepwalking?
In my dream, you were
blonde, had longer legs.
I don’t have the patience
right now to listen to you
read poems. We could move
to Illinois, my parents are
in Illinois. You’re terrible
with directions. You buy
too many dresses.
Isn’t that skirt a little
short? I get it, you like dogs.
I’m taking the cat with me.
Try pork. I don’t believe
in marriage. I won’t always
be poor. I never told you this,
but my parents don’t sleep
in the same bed. I drew the
state of New Jersey. You’ll
know they’re the right
mushrooms if they turn
blue when you pinch
them. I can’t believe you
had me make dinner on my
own birthday. My dad snores.
You look at your phone
too much. Talk to me. Don’t
talk to me. It doesn’t cross
my mind to think about
you while I’m at work.
I don’t appreciate your
desire to buy a home, even
if it is a long ways off.
Why don’t you eat meat?
What if I wrap my fingers
around yours? Is that
too rough? Too soft? You
look like a kitten. Yes,
we can go sailing.
No, I don’t really want to hike.
What feels right?
I don’t think the solution
to the problem is to drink
more. Take the train to
St. James. I’m too stressed
for sex. I decided I can’t
pick you up from the airport,
or ever, anywhere ever again.
I don’t know how I feel.
I don’t think I miss you.
I can’t believe you told
Melissa we slept together.
I don’t want you to call
me your partner. What
would you name the dog?
What if you slept
in a tent in the living room?
Try listening to Holst
while mapping the stars.
That’s crazy, of course
I care about you. I wanted
to write, but I’m numb.
You’re so fucking morbid.
I don’t think the solution
to the problem is to adopt
a chinchilla. I made a film
for you. I’m moving.
I’m selfish. I can tell you
want to leave. I don’t think
I can love anyone. Should
we be having more sex?
What if we learned to play
tennis? We could take LSD.
Call me your boyfriend.
Beige washes you out.
There’s no way I have more
shoes than you. I can barely
pay for a MetroCard,
what makes you think
I could ever afford a dog?
I dreamt we were camping
on the prow of a ship.
Men have insecurity issues
too. I can tell you’re
somewhere else. Your brain
is not like my brain.
I came home to your
messy house and I knew
this was over. Meet me
in the park after work.