You were wrung out in that rigout he would say  
after a night when he swallowed the room  
and ate every face except mine. 
 
He slept peacefully with shards of glass slipper  
between his teeth, happy to leave me  
soak and bloat against the blue dream. 
 
In the silver-eyed morning of no car start,  
phlegm-chested regret would remind him  
of our favourite Nirvana song cut with Kurt’s cough. 
 
He wanted everything and nothing tight, tight, tight.  
I blamed his mother for ordering his shoes online.  
He said no to marriage. Life was too long for happy ever after. 
 
I left clumps of numb elastic hair, mini ponytails  
bound in rubber bands all over the house –  
a nice stretchy truth for any new Cinderella. 
 
But I brought his scent to therapy, his picture to bed,  
and wrote with his favourite green pen. You see doctor,  
I loved him as much as the last number 8 bus home.