Poetry as Plan B

Step 1: Fall in love.

Hard. Publicly.

Like a clumsy waiter with a tray full of wine glasses.

Except they’re filled with your self-worth.

Ignore the almost-cute red flags.

Chalk it up to charm.

Call it fate anyway.

Repeat it to your friends until they stop asking how it’s going.

Step 2: Watch it unravel.

Slow at first. Then fast.

Like a sweater snagged on a doorknob

in the middle of a goodbye hug.

You’ll think it’s salvageable. It isn’t.

She’ll say “I just need space.” You’ll give her

astronomical units.

Step 3: Keep the receipts.

The movie stubs. The text that said “You get me.”

The bottle of lotion that still smells like the night

you both cried during that Pixar film.

Memory hoards like a raccoon.

You’ll keep the Spotify playlist

even though it now feels like slow self-harm.

Step 4: Find a metaphor in her toothbrush.

It’s pink. It’s frayed. It leans slightly to the left

just like her politics.

You brush with it once. Just a quick swipe.

Then tell yourself you didn’t.

Step 5: Bleed lines until it no longer hurts.

Sit at your desk like a medieval scribe of heartbreak,

dipping pain in ink. Or maybe coffee. Or wine.

(You’re not sure anymore. Doesn’t matter.)

Replace therapy with revisions.

Replace closure with cleverness.

You’re not healed, but at least

you’re publishable.