different oceans

sorting through your summer clothes, packing winter away in a closet just dark enough to forget.  you say, “how does this shirt look?”  

it looks like sixteen previous springtime rituals with you and other shirts — handsome, sharp — like women have no chance but to adore you.  and my stomach lurches because there once was a girl half your age, and three months of tears, so long ago but just like yesterday.  she idolized you in a manner only the uncommitted can love, an exhilarated rush that caught your oh-so-human ego and swept you far out to sea.  i told you to swim in the ocean of your choice knowing, before you answered, that i’d be spending my nights alone.  years later, you’ve forgotten the tide but i still drown every time.

i say, “you look handsome.  really sharp.”