what you might be doing now, sitting
on a coiled rug drawing a sketch of
a building or an odd looking woman
that you saw earlier in the day.
I don't imagine you naked anymore.
I don't remember what that looked like,
or maybe I had never actually looked.
Except I do remember that your cheeks
always turned pink when you saw my
nipples through my shirt.
It's not healthy to remember, the
good friend would tell me between sips
of a coke and I'd wonder how I could possibly
stop.
And what's worse is the thought of what
you might imagine me doing right now,
what I am doing right now, how it would
be different if you had never left at all.
There were times that we would hope
the coffee would be hot because the
air was cold and we were outside
at 2am in a playground and we were
beyond the age of playgrounds and we
were talking about fantasy and stars
and we were beyond the age of fantasy
and stars and instead of kissing we would
just think about kissing and then I'd go
home cold and wonder if maybe you were gay
or I was ugly.
When I concentrate on nothing else I can
remember how wet it got between my
thighs the first time you held my hand
in a Days Inn parking lot. And that makes
me feel less sad. And maybe it makes
you feel less sad, too.
And that's good.
Or bad.
I don't know.
