I think it's significant that I have never written a poem about you.
You never know when it's the last night you are going to spend with someone.
Once, I thought I knew, and we spent the whole night crying together and holding each other.
That last line was not about you.
I think if we knew it had been the last night, I would have cherished it more.
Instead I was thinking about how we had to get up early to take you to the airport.
At the terminal, you didn't kiss me goodbye
Even after I asked.
Maybe that should have been my first clue that we were getting
to the ending part.
Instead I assumed it was because I was healing from a cold sore you didn't want to catch.
I think about how unromantic cold sores are. How pedestrian.
How you told me to stop eating nuts.
Maybe the whole relationship we had
felt like healing from a sore.
That is not true, probably.
You said "I won't be made into the bad guy here."
I said < "I don't want to play the victim." >
I thanked you for being brave enough to end it, said I thought
I might have been the one to do it if you hadn't. You said, "Bullshit."
I think about how in four months you never slept at my place.
I think about your black boxer briefs
that I watched you pull up under your jeans, the morning you were getting
ready to go to the airport,
and I think about how it looked like you were putting on a uniform,
A dress-code for a different city,
And I think about how each geographical location
has its own unspoken dress-code,
mostly due to the weather,
and I think about how the heavy layers of San Francisco fit you
better than the unhindered tank tops, shorts and sandals
of the desert.
And I think about how you're only here for your grandma.
And how this is just a stopping-point for you,
and how I was a mile-post.
And how you tried to get me to see that from our third date,
But how much I wanted to make you my home.
You never know when it's the last night you are going to spend with someone.
Once, I thought I knew, and we spent the whole night crying together and holding each other.
That last line was not about you.
I think if we knew it had been the last night, I would have cherished it more.
Instead I was thinking about how we had to get up early to take you to the airport.
At the terminal, you didn't kiss me goodbye
Even after I asked.
Maybe that should have been my first clue that we were getting
to the ending part.
Instead I assumed it was because I was healing from a cold sore you didn't want to catch.
I think about how unromantic cold sores are. How pedestrian.
How you told me to stop eating nuts.
Maybe the whole relationship we had
felt like healing from a sore.
That is not true, probably.
You said "I won't be made into the bad guy here."
I said < "I don't want to play the victim." >
I thanked you for being brave enough to end it, said I thought
I might have been the one to do it if you hadn't. You said, "Bullshit."
I think about how in four months you never slept at my place.
I think about your black boxer briefs
that I watched you pull up under your jeans, the morning you were getting
ready to go to the airport,
and I think about how it looked like you were putting on a uniform,
A dress-code for a different city,
And I think about how each geographical location
has its own unspoken dress-code,
mostly due to the weather,
and I think about how the heavy layers of San Francisco fit you
better than the unhindered tank tops, shorts and sandals
of the desert.
And I think about how you're only here for your grandma.
And how this is just a stopping-point for you,
and how I was a mile-post.
And how you tried to get me to see that from our third date,
But how much I wanted to make you my home.
