the hole i left in you
is roughly female-shaped,
like a symbol on a ladies’ room door,
and i’ve been watching you try
to convince old friends and forced acquaintances
to fill it in for you
since the moment i left my key
on the kitchen counter.

in the beginning of our time together
i recognized the vagueness
in the way you said “somebody”
after your needs and wants
rather than “you,” but i wish
that when you’d asked me later on to be your steph
it had meant you were molding
that soft place in your chest
to fit only me–
the way our spiced-wine sheets
and the crook of your arm
on shiny saturday mornings seemed to–
and that i had been able
to comply.

i lie in that same bed now
dreaming of the feeling
of the final days,
the bitter misunderstanding
and tense silences,
packing boxes with the knives
we used to cut them with,
the hard corners of bare walls
and the edges of heavy furniture

and i wish that you
or anyone else i’d ever left
had asked me to stay.

because the truth is
the hole in me was made by a man
much taller than you
and never quite healed
down to your size.