The least painful habit

I wake up with the taste of yesterday’s martini
and the sour breath of doubt
curling in my mouth
like a cigarette butt
I keep meaning to throw away.

You’re in the next room,
making coffee,
moving around like you belong to the morning--
like the day is a thing
that won’t turn on you.

I listen to the pancakes
sizzle in the pan
and I think:
that sound is love,
or maybe it’s just butter
turning to noise
because heat still works
even when people don’t.

You kiss me sometimes
like you’re checking a box.
A soft stamp on the forehead,
a quick receipt.
Paid.
Delivered.
No returns.

And I hate myself for counting it,
for weighing your touch
like a bartender measures cheap gin--
trying to catch you
watering it down.

The truth is
I’ve been hungry so long
I don’t trust full plates.
I stare at your eyes
like they’re a rigged slot machine
and I keep feeding quarters in
because once--
I swear to god--
it paid out.

But love isn’t a jackpot,
it’s not even money,
it’s more like
an old coat
you wear because it still fits
and you don’t want to admit
winter could be different now.

I ask you “do you love me?”
in my head
a hundred times a day.
Out loud I ask
“how was work?”
“want to eat?”
“did you sleep okay?”

because I’m not brave,
I’m just loud
in quieter ways.

And you answer,
and your answers are fine,
always fine--
the kind of fine
that keeps a man alive
but doesn’t let him live.

At night you turn your back
without thinking
and my heart starts doing
what it always does:
building a case.

Exhibit A: the sigh followed by okay.
Exhibit B: the distance between our knees.
Exhibit C: the way you say my name
like it’s a thing
you’re trying not to drop.

I want proof.
I want guarantees.
I want you to open your ribs
and show me the bright, dumb engine
that keeps you coming back.

But you just breathe,
steady and careless,
like someone who’s never been
evicted from a kiss.

So I lie there
with my questions
lined up like empty bottles
on the windowsill,
staring at the dark
and waiting for it to answer me.

Sometimes I think
maybe you do love me
and I’m the one
making a prison out of air.

Sometimes I think
maybe you don’t
and I’m just a dog
sleeping on the porch
because the house is warm.

Either way
the morning comes,
the pancakes sizzle,
you move through the room
like a song you’re not singing for me,

and I follow you around
with my busted little heart
holding out a tin cup
pretending it’s a joke.

“Hey,” I say,
and you look at me
with that face--
that face that could mean anything.

And there it is again,

the old question
licking its teeth.

Do you love me,

or am I just
the least painful habit
you haven’t quit yet?