Your two-in-the-morning text message says:
I’m coming to see you tomorrow.
And all night I dream of you and all day I wait
and the parking lot claims no new arrivals.
So I put on my slinky jeans, fix my why-yes-I-just-rolled-out-of-bed hair
and prepare to forget you with the right ratio of cheap vodka to expensive friends.
Oh, we stay out all night, strung out under strobe lights,
disco dancing with drunk boys
as if this is going to erase (minus r equals ease) this divine rejection.

Your two-in-the-morning text message says:
I’m sorry.
And my fingers itch to tell you that it’s fine, just fine,
but I told myself that I’d retain my illusion of dignity.
So I roll over to face another boy with another set of priorities,
knowing that while this hurts me, it won’t touch you.
It will be me that sneaks out the next morning,
fuzzy with Advil cravings and detached regret
as I slip into the shower to rinse away this charming mistake.

My two-in-the-morning text message says:
I’m not waiting for you anymore.
And I believe it might be true, for a minute or two,
because I’ve temporarily turned self-doubt on its end.
So I celebrate my moment of glory with Sheryl Crow and Jack Daniels
until I realize I’ve sent you nothing at all.
I stare at the screen—I have to believe there is something better than this,
so I don’t hit “send”, just “save to drafts”
and wait for you to interrupt our delicate, exhausted silence.