Sometimes it feels like I left my heart in Albuquerque.

New Mexico sunsets held aloft by the Sandias.

Car rides together through the city you fell in love with,

On no shocks so it felt as if we were driving something left behind

Like the signs on route 66.

For the first time we got to share the same space,

the same bed,

The same smoldering sky, and the garden you poured yourself into.

I watched you cook risotto

with one of your favorite poli-sci podcasts playing over our quiet.

I still watch the video I took of you, just to savor

The time we shared in your kitchen and the flavor of your company.

Lavender cocktails at Los Poblanos loosened my tongue.

(You smiled.)

I ached for vulnerability.

(You lashed out.)

Stuck in the mire of my depression

(I pushed you away).

Sometimes it feels like I left my heart in Albuquerque,

But you don’t live there anymore.