Separating you from this despicable act
is easier as hands spin round the face of a mantel clock.
Each day, I am increasingly reminded of the good: three times
and no luck on the chocolate pie with meringue,
the time the beaters ate the shell and you laughed
as filling flew through the air and stuck to cabinets and hair.
Or the day you were in the snow with a hammer
building our yellow shed.
I had the lemon pound cake baking, running to town
to grab stamps or pay a bill
and you forgot to take it out and I cried.
You smiled and ate the burnt bits anyway.
Or my 23rd birthday when you had to work.
You left clues around the apartment,
a gift hidden in each room: Edward Cullen
stuffed under the couch cushion,
a cd in the washing machine,
tickets to see Blink in the mailbox.
Three days before you told me,
I came home to a dozen red roses.
How cruel of you to kill a fresh flower
to clear your guilty conscious,
and yet the day they arrived
I had never felt more loved.
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