Peak Foliage

The most beautiful blonde

I've ever spooned

needed a place to stay

a year ago

so I started to cook more

and bought her a dresser.

I still have the dresser.

She couldn't make food

and I didn't want to clean:

a partnership based

on the negative.

We listened to more music

than what I felt necessary

to fill our shared air

and watched movies light enough

to keep her out 

of the psych ward again.

The sex was as monumental

as what you'd rather not imagine.

I faked it on New Year's Eve

since I was too drunk

after shameless karaoke

at her sister's house

and she had work in the morning

at the hospital.

Had I known it'd be 

the last time I'd sleep next to her

I wouldn't have gone

through the motions.

She missed her boys

and they couldn't live

here; hell, I barely can.

Ten months later

while waltzing through a hallway

a long strand of wavy corn silk

attached to a light switch plate 

brushed against my arm

and inspired a tribute

to what should not

have been:

The closest to normal

that we'll ever have.

She's since chopped her hair.

I left that one dangling.

I hope he goes light

on the peppers.