to all the men I've loved before III

Queen Anne’s lace, spotted knapweed, peppermint wrappers litter the median, separate the comers from the goers. A neon sign hums above Interstate 40. Between two wine glasses at ChurchKey sit nine states and thirteen years. You are still depressed. None of the roads led me to myself.  A ring of house keys with a bottle opener attached.  The bartender’s raised eyebrow. Your hair pushed to the right as you have always done but now the hairline is receding. This is the language of lovers who have never touched. “Do you recall when I was in the east side of the city?” I laugh from my softening belly. I have remembered I have remembered.