By Andrea Lianne Grabowski
we are used to speaking in code. subtle nod, contraband. lemon dissolves easy on the tongue. i’m
getting all the “i remember”s out of my system.
i mythologized the last time. but this faux leather couch and moose dog toy are brighter. there is no more last time. only five copies of morning star and you saying it’s a valid question, it’s a valid question. the bathroom mirror doesn’t play any boy epic. my neurons have stopped aching for you shoving my head under the faucet, water running violet. my hair is mousy again, and so is yours. honest. your band sweatshirt from the plot in you is never going away. i will always put kale on pizza. so little has changed. how much. how much.
a tiny piece of myself caught between your bookshelf and the wall crawls inside me and settles
into my marrow. there you are. you’ve been gone a while. a breath of relief. christmas used to be
hard, but finally, maybe not.
we are used to standing in the darkened kitchen not-quite-sober. soft giggles ricocheting off
countertops. the sink is by a window now. we can see out.
Andrea Lianne Grabowski is a queer writer living on Anishinaabe land who can often be found peering into the windows of abandoned farmhouses. She’s been on the literary staff of NMC Magazine and is preparing to query her first novel. Her work appears and is forthcoming in Fifth Wheel Press, Catchwater Magazine, Catatonic Daughters, Hell is Real Anthology, and more. Twitter: @pingouinwrites.