By Daniel Brennan
I say your name three times in the mirror
then three more times
Lights on or off it doesn’t matter
I’m calling you in the dead of night
in the hours when curiosity is as innate
as spinal fluid or nightmares
My teeth grind evening into bone meal as I wait for you
I say your name when I know you aren’t
listening How could you be?
Your body moves across a map made of the
old sex-soaked sheets we used to navigate together
but now rest like a ghost story an urban legend
dangling in the back of my throat
I say your name three times a hundred times
as many times as it takes
in the mirror in the dark
to summon you here
To look me in the eyes and tell me
you don’t love me anymore.
Daniel Brennan (he/him) is a queer writer and coffee devotee from New York, whose apartment has run out of space for books. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize + Best of the Net, and has appeared in numerous publications, including The Penn Review, Birdcoat Quarterly, Sky Island Journal, and ONE ART. He can be found on Twitter and Instagram: @dannyjbrennan