burned the coffee thinking of words
to use when writing about you.
(what word rhymes with commission?)
I’m still kinda missing that one night
where we, where uh, well, we watched
that movie at the friend’s apartment who
had the dog that was scared of me (“she
just doesn’t like GUYS”). we posted
up in summer night seriousness and
even though we were stoned you would
flash some steel sober looks at me, and I
left awed, staggered: who’s this chick?
you know, the coffee dripped out okay,
but I still don’t know what details to
add and what to give an omission.
She had had Letham’s Disappointment
Artist on her shelf, another edition
than mine, hardback. You can guess
where it goes from here.
I talk about you more often down here.
Here, because you are not the typical
taboo topic to be picked around and
through. Here, the memories were fond
and friends all liked you, it wasn’t
feigning, I promise.
We never got a dog together, or
an apartment, or even a good long
road trip. And I miss the winks.
Take it back, I know now, here.
On the edge of his rearranged
room he stands, glancing out
onto rain soaked streets. Six
months have passed and if
he said it wasn’t easier he
would be lying. Still,
some days it stays difficult
through a late morning and
on in till the late day, then
eventually, the night. Some
days memories stick longer
than they should; as in, they
outstay their welcome. Not
everyday, mind you, but some days.
Her feet do what all feet do
on wet ground: they patter
as you run, and splash
unwanted water up past
your ankle. No worries.
That’s what the boots are for.
Like most days she is in
a hurry. Conversation is
for the evening, and even
then she’s choosy.
a certain nose, an inflection
reminds her… “Hahah. No, no
no.” Another time, a different