It still rains at two am.
I walk barefoot on the patio
until the cuffs of my jeans are so wet
they won’t have a chance to dry until tomorrow.

The last one wore her shirts loose, self-conscious,
            embarrassed by what two children had done to her breasts.
She never forgave my self-conscious tendency to come
            with my eyes closed.

As if the problem was performance,
            not that we were naked in my bed on the night we
            met.

Almost nine months later I drove her home.
She said “no one will ever kiss as good as you.”
Just the latest way to say “the end.”
“ Kiss as well,” I said
                        “ kiss as well.”
The speeches blend together.

Two years alone will give anyone perspective.
When I do go out to eat now, I order something different.
I think “true change starts with small things,”
because I have to.
            Because this is more than just a habit I’m breaking.