I am getting used to lying on rooftops that look like ripples, counting tears from clouds that hide behind a night mask of their own. I used to count them, remember every drop between my fingers but now they splatter like alcohol, drowsy medication and lies. I slide pieces of love notes and unsent letters under the plastic on the dining table, hoping one day you'll sit there and notice it under your routine glass of Jack Daniels.
Every morning I wake up to dirty teacups and half eaten pancakes, empty hammocks and closed doors. When will you be home again? When will you actually look at me rather than the stain my shadow makes on your bathroom door. And think of the fact that we can't even stand back to bare back anymore. Think of how our fingers can't stay intertwined for more than a few seconds. And then ask yourself why I beg for the same things every minute you aren't engrossed in the next lie you'll spit on my face.
I'm accustomed to sitting on dirt and weeds, kissing stigmas and bathing sepals. I used to open my eyes to crystal vases full of water beads in my favorite colors, baby's breath, lace ribbons and poetry on cards too small for your writing stuck on my pillow. I pile them together and tie them with discarded strings from lingerie because maybe you'll touch them when you pass and turn towards my naked sleep.
All day I sit at the tinted windows, thinking I should get blinds because the newly married couple next door would see me home as they walk together for their paper. For their love. Then I find myself with another shot of tequila, salty fingers, lime flavored tears and a book on the perfect couple. Because if I can live a lie, I can read a lie.
I'm getting used to lying on cold tile floors, a shower head; my rain illusion. I used to laugh at your pile of condoms and club tickets and now I cry with them. I should have known before. I should have thought. But then again; I was buying you a ring while you had a bachelor party.