Behind the cinderblock building
That was once a Laundromat.
You took my hand
And exclaimed that
In only a matter of days
You had seen something in me.
I hadn’t washed my hair
For quite some time
But you didn’t seem to mind.
I was seventeen
And half asleep.
I smiled to myself
At the idea
Of something
Wonderful
And relentlessly
Refused.
You liked my songs.
My poems.
The ink on my arm
The way I smoked far too much
And drank not at all.
For
Seventeen
Years
And now twenty-one
I’ve
Been
Giving
Up.
We kissed
With our hands over our mouths
And I slipped away.
Sometimes I hear your shit
So many people seem to talk about it.
And your book on my shelf
Sings lazily to itself
And I cannot read a word you’ve written
Without feeling
Absolutely
Alone.
Your name.
At the top of the list
Of things I wish I had
Or hadn’t done.
And when you forget mine
I’ll
Still
Be
Listening.
