My first love is sitting at the edge 
of my bed. I wet a washcloth 
and clean the blood from his open temple

as he holds a bag of frozen peas 
to my bent, distended arm and tells me 
what it’s like being dead. 

Something about waiting for a train, looking 
for someone you used to know, and
needing an unbroken bicycle. 

His head will not stop bleeding, yet
my ligaments and veins proficiently stitch 
themselves back together while we talk--

I know he can’t stay. I’m readying 
him for whatever comes next, 
even if it’s nothing. 

He is wearing a white T-shirt. 
I pour salt over the bloodstains, 
rinse the shirt under cold water 

in the kitchen sink. 
I stand in silence, watching red 
stream down the drain. 

Outside, he is on my bicycle, 
riding towards the tracks.