Love? Poem.

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.