nostalgia holds me the same way a counterfeit bill keeps value in my wallet. 



 

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we kept a horseshoe above the front door, a formica table with twinkling stars we found in a garage sale, kitchen green with plants hanging off every edge, and shelves you made me by hand.  you kept photos of me by your side of the bed and I rested my hand on your back when I slept.  we had hooks for our keys with our initials, your grandmothers meatball recipe in the far kitchen drawer, and a lighter from our night in japan sat safe on our desk.  the dog kept her paws off the kitchen floor, I cried in the shower so you couldn’t tell, and you slept further away til my hand couldn’t reach. shards from a glass you threw stuck to my selena record I kept on the wall, you turned my photos face down,  and your coffee mug stayed in the same spot for weeks after the day you left. 
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in another universe we’re driving around in the plymouth,  sitting in our usual seats at arts cafe, spending our sundays close.  waking you up with coffee at bonks cabin, my hand on your thigh, bare feet on the porch. maybe I’m forgiving you again over our usual at Giorgio’s,  keeping your secrets from my friends, asking if your friends would think of you different, believing change is coming after a trip out of town. maybe the glass you threw at the wall hits me instead.  maybe it’s the same in every universe.  and every universe, I’m glad I’m out. 
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they say god laughs at those who make plans, so does grief.  except she sits beside you at the dinner table while you laugh amongst friends, as you make your bed in the morning and she keeps caught in the corners of your mattress. she remembers when you forget, reminds you the knocking you feel isn't hollow at all, rather full of the love, the wonder left with nowhere to go. she sits while god laughs and tugs at your pant leg.
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