I don’t want bad things to happen to you,
but I also don’t not want them.
After you hurt me,
you told me that someone had stolen your bike.
As if that was the karma the universe was dishing out to you.
You can buy a new bike, but you can’t buy a new heart.
“One transgression brings another transgression,”
as it is said in Ethics of our Fathers.
I don’t want you to be happy.
I don’t want you to move on.
I hope you see my face before you go to sleep.
I hope I see you at Pride, alone, as I predicted before it ended.
I hope you blink before I do.
I hope you’re also counting the days since it ended.
I hope you’re deciding if you should reach out.
I loved you 37 days ago. I loved you 38 days ago.
I hope when I came into your life I expanded your rib cage.
I hope you could breathe more than you ever thought you could.
I hope you now carry around brown paper bags and inhalers.
I hope your medical alert necklace reads, “has trouble breathing.”
I hope you stare at the indentation on your bed where I used to sleep.
I hope you steal the comforter from yourself, just like I used to.
I hope you mimic all my actions, pretending I am there.
You didn’t want me when I was there, I want to haunt you.
I want you to wish you acted differently.
I want you to find your humanity.
I want you to do something good.
I want one good deed to bring another good deed.
But until then,
bad begets bad.