He goes back to the ship in the rum bottle,
alone at the dining room table,
three of his favorite sad songs on repeat.

Do you know that you thrash around in your sleep?
He doesn't hear me,
lost in a sea of coping mechanisms.

I can tell that the gold band feels too tight on his left finger,
a rotting sugar maple tree grown in the middle of the bedroom –
but we can make it work, or work around it.

Because I’m not who you cry for.
I say his name one more time.
The music is too loud.