A poem I wrote when I was married

A while ago I was married. I found the perfect girl in the mountains of Bulgaria. I should have stayed there with her, and if I had we'd still be hitched, have a big family in a village and shoot guns in the sky at the new year. But I messed up and brought her here. She grew sad quickly. I saddened myself. Collective sadness grew to the point of bifurcation. How tragic, yet how tragic the American girlfriend, the wickedly satisfying yet meaningless phenomenon

Under the doorway

You hear people in
the hallway, because there is
space under the door.
I think you are drunk,
my dear, and your spills
on the bed sheet, your wine,
your beer bottles filled with
tobacco juice, your late night
laments of youth lost, your
awkward hair-pulling kisses,
they are sweet but they are
fading, like your skateboard
stolen unprotected one meaningless
crater-filled afternoon.
Sometimes, honey, when the rain
chases away the neighborhood
fireworks, I will come to you
in the dark stairwell, and knock
at your door. You are and
are not ready for me. But over
chicken soup and beer
you will think again and come
alive and awaken like the snow
when it melts in late Fall.