seeing yourself pressed naked
against a window, remembering
everything that you love 
is not sad so much as it is
exhausting.

you had asked me why
i wrote sad poems, almost
like you knew the answer.

it made me think about
how exhausting it was
to be near you.
how fucking you left 
a bitter taste
in my mouth. 

and, in yours, too,
if we're still
being honest
with ourselves.

i threw a dirty towel at you,
after we had finished it.
you said,
"i'm exhausted."

i thought about how sad 
you really must have
been.