You call it picking. 

Like twisting 
in both directions 

the not-quite-ripe apple 
that refuses to be torn 

from the tree. 
Stem so stubborn 

I can’t help but ask 
are you sure everything’s okay? 

It’s just that your feet 
weigh heavier when you

come home. You didn’t
take out the trash when I asked. 

You told me to watch 
my romantic comedy alone.

And I think you’d rather 
do yoga at night with 

the woman on YouTube 
than me. It just seems like 

we’re not okay, but 
I so badly want 

to believe in 
a honey crisp love. 

Love, I know you want me 
to stop picking but the days 

are getting shorter so before 
you fall beneath someone

else’s feet, maybe I’ll ask
just one more time—

Are you sure?