I didn't think you'd come back

like you did,

cigarette in hand

and smiling like nothing's passed,

handing me a Kit Kat

like I'm still in third grade.

I didn't think you'd thrust open

the door

as if you'd opened it every day

for the past seven years

instead of the door

on your wrecked, old van.

I didn't think

you'd throw your beers

in the fridge

and yourself on the couch

without even

saying hello,

or that you'd laugh at the picture

of my boyfriend

as if I could do better,

as if I could find someone

more worthy,

someone more like

you.

I didn't think you'd

curse his name

and curse mom's name

and even your own

while calling me your "angel,"

which I suppose must be true

for children are always close

and loved

but angels,

angels you don't know

or speak to

or live with

but you think of them every once in a while

during a drink

and hope that they remember you,

too.