142.

I am propped up against myself at midnight
slumped breaths shallow and insufficient, the way I was
for you. and I have scoured my memories with a magnifying glass,
the campfire with my family, the meals we cooked together
for any trace, for any clues, for anything
but I only pick up a few blades of dead grass here and there
a few empty bird shells between my fingers, and nothing
like a first sign or a beginning of an end, no indication
of what was heading for me like a truck,
not that I can remember anyway.
so I am resigned to sit here wilting
only half-drunk and half-over you
glassy eyed and wondering
(as always)
where your head's at
and what did I do wrong
and who it is you're with now
and were you really that unhappy
and why and why and why
did you never tell me
any of this