Souvenir

    Dan Nowak

you got offended

when i tried to bring you flowers
when i reenacted a John Cusack
movie, when i walked in on you
showering and singing Prince’s
Raspberry Beret, when i asked
you to dance, when i danced with
you anyways, when we talked
about poetry, when i met your best
friend, when i told your best friend
i taught cute girls, when i didn’t
like how you cooked mushrooms,
when we went to counseling and
brought up sex, when i asked you
why you stopped moving during
sex, when i looked at the Urban
Outfitter’s catalog, when i told you
you have no taste in men after me

you once became an astrophysicist

you never once referred to me as Copernicus,
but insisted that my world flat, full of edges,
and the stars refuse to move in my skies. 
i was lying there, on my back, cold tile
trying to inch its devious way underneath my
shirt replacing the toilet seat you broke.
you stared at me, teased your hair again,
and asked me when you could piss because
you really had to. the whole process should
have only taken fifteen minutes, but you
refused to run to Home Depot looking
like you worked there. i fastened the last
washer on the underside of the toilet,
got to my knees and cleaned the bowl one
more time before you shuffled me along.
sometimes i wonder if you even see
how i’m left on your orbit, and my stars 
can never change because you don’t.