Anniversary of a Breakup

E. F. Schraeder

At the barstool I wonder if she’ll show,
remember meeting here, but that’s a lie.

My eyes wander across the winter of unknown faces,
seek somewhere to place a well crafted metaphor,

some substitute for a lost occasion,
equal parts chemistry and memory.

The farthest objects we see in the sky are quasars—
looking back in time, they appear tonight

delivered an eon ago. Lifetimes of light
dispersed into what we name constellations,

like bodies reinventing themselves
through cell division. Reparations.

I digress. A decade of adulthood blinks as
ice clinks in the glass. I lean over the counter.

Order her favorite drink chilled, no ice.
Inhale. Breathe in what she liked best,

the stardust left in my mouth,
I can still taste it.