Every Poem I Write Is About You And I Hate It

This one will not be for you, I say.
I pick the words out from my teeth,
some are stuck where my wisdoms once were,
plucked out to make more room in my mouth.

I can still feel the space, though.
Still feel where something was, though.

I am afraid the moon is judging my choices lately.
I’ve stopped calling you
but leave you voicemails in my dreams.

I met a boy from a different country and he curls
my arms around his chest,
I promise to forget about the space left in my mouth.
I fill it with him instead.
We fall into cycles of when I need you,
or him.

I can’t remember the difference.

I cried in a bathtub last night
in the city I used to meet you in.
Terrified of planes, I still flew for you, My Love.
My one-dimple boy.

I hope you’re happy.
This is the last poem for you.
Or not.
I say this every damn time.

Every poem has your teeth in it.
I can still feel the bite marks.