every day seems the same—

except that one.

our last good day.

we made pancakes at 4 a.m

and used cinnamon

in order to drown the bitterness.

you let me pretend to be a cook

and i let you pretend to be in love with me.

the pancakes are burnt

but neither of us mentions it.

i clean the plates

as you roll a joint.

you put my sweater

back on the cold skin

that you took it off of,

and note the late september air.

by november,

you take my sweater

and tell me i can burn your t-shirts

if it’ll make me feel better.

(i wear them to sleep

until new years instead.)

we stare at the stars

and i tell you i don’t feel it yet.

you ask me, again,

if i’ve tried it before.

my “no” sounds like an apology.

you sigh and wonder aloud

if you’re doing something immoral.

we quietly assemble a puzzle

until all the pieces look the same.

we fall asleep entangled

and by the time i close my eyes,

i finally feel it—

today is different.