bitch doesn't even begin to quantify

I hope every orchid within 5 miles

of your dorm room never blooms

again. I hope you become incapable

of remembering your friends’

birthdays. That uncooked spinach

left in your fridge gets slimy and fuzzy

faster than usual. I hope a drunk frat boy

throws up on your favorite pink converse.

And no matter how hard you try

you can’t get the smell out, the memory

out. I hope that you graduate and get a job

after eight interviews and work

your way up and have to eventually relocate

somewhere far away, like Arkansas

or Alaska. I hope that you get lunch

once a week, with coworkers

with better passions than you. Like snorkeling

or typewriters. And they talk offhandedly

about inside jokes in group chats

you’re never part of. I hope you learn

an old friend is getting married

from an Instagram post. I hope

you feel a slow unzipping of yourself

and everything you used to know.

I hope you find endless, wonderful lovers

that all remind you a little of me. And none

tell you that they love you. Or do, but leave

unexpectedly. I hope you buy a baby

blue house. I hope you build a garden in

the front yard. I hope you find barren soil

but still coax a few sickly tomato plants

into rooting. That you obsess over them

and buy books and fancy fertilizer. And make

pans of tomato sauce. I hope that you jar

the extra, to give to neighbors or friends like

your mother used to. I hope that it ends up

coated in dust and shoved to the back of a cabinet

because it wouldn’t stop staring at you.