On Canal St.
I pierced my septum in February because I wanted to. I stretched it to a size 4 because I wanted your attention. You were one size up, which meant I could use what you no longer needed. We realized when you got to a 2, that neither of us could probably go any further. I wore the piece you had been wearing since I had met you the first time. “Take your nose out!” we would always say.
During the week I was losing everything, my septum came out somewhere on the subway. I had been pulling at it, like you told me not to. I resigned into the loss. I put a much tinier piece of jewelry in. “This is good,” I told myself, “No pieces left.” I breathed out.
The next day, walking up the stairs from the Canal St. ACE stop on my way into work, I looked down at the first step and saw the septum piece at my foot, as if I had put it there myself.
Even when I try to lose you, I can’t.