I wonder what day of the week it will be the last time that you think about kissing me.
Will you be able to taste the coffee on my lips when deleting my phone number?
Or when running your fingers through the particularly long hair of another Friday-night love?
Or on a Wednesday, in the supermarket, when you swear that you hear my laugh 2 aisles down, will you walk over - and stand there for a few minutes, pretending that you’ve forgotten which brand of peanut butter to buy?
Will you get rid of that last drop of me by spitting me into the mouth of every girl on your cul-de-sac?
Or try drinking me out of your liver every Saturday night?
Or try kicking a hole in your drywall because you found my bobby pin in your pillowcase, and remembered how I used to pin you together like my French braid?
Will you drive me out of your gas tank at 70 miles per hour into a tree,
into the ocean - how are you going to get rid of one drop of me when you’re the entire ocean?
And on the last day that you peel open those apple-skin, empty, bloodshot eyes will you remember all of the ways that we defined goodbye?
I wonder how you’ll say goodbye, the first time that you think about leaving me.