203 Days.

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Two hundred and three days.
 
A notch on the heart,
each one
won.
 
Is that why you were moaning,
did you know?
Moaning, did you know
 
all about these days?
These days.
Each. Day.
 
Moaning, did you know
that I would fight for you and
win?
 
(or were you moaning for that blonde girl
down the hall, Sheree, to let her know you’d won?)
 
For now,
 
I lie alone,
making you moan
again in that hotel room.
Waiting.
 
For you,
 
I would skin my heart
and send it, bulging,
in a blood-stained brown envelope
all the way to Querétaro
 
if I thought that would help at all.
 
if I thought that it would reach you,
the postal system being as it is.
 
For now,
 
I lie alone.
Waiting.
 
Two hundred and three days
won.
​