Why must I feel more passion
for missed opportunities than
for the continuous love

flowing at my feet?

It’s not like anyone understands
what it is that draws me to you—
like anxious mosquitos to a caged
blue light, where they die united,
leaving a burnt stench in the air
as the light lives on. Or whales
who throw themselves ashore,
leaving their lives so they might
finally taste the half-baked sun.

Or maybe I am more ordinary
than I credit myself for. Maybe
I am like ants swarming a Snickers bar,
vultures following the dying doe,
Hollywood zombies tracking
the tender brain. But I wonder:
is this hunger, or craving?

Is there a chance that your years
of self-abuse could change you chemically?
That my lips picked up *******
in your saliva, or perhaps ******
laced the perspiration of a nervous palm
over mine? Is this attraction
or addiction? Does it matter?

We make the choices that decide our fate,
or so they say. But who’s to say
we’re really choosing?

You and I separated long ago. The only writer
I ever loved. I try to find myself in
between your words, lingering somewhere deep
in your inspiration, but I don’t think
I’m there. You always made them up,

but I knew you better than that. Recycling
moments from the past to make a fake
love feel real. I don’t love you.
I only wish I could see your memories of me
living on through your fingertips,

the way you do through mine. We live separate
lives in the same vicinity, touching the same
people. If you had told me this years ago,
I wouldn’t have believed that even a single
degree could separate you and I.

We were each necessary for the other
to mature. My biggest fear is that I didn’t
help you grow as a writer. So what
if we matured? If being loved by me
didn’t improve your writing, then it was all

for nothing.

But what is so appealing
about someone
who makes you want
to give up your dreams?

Every failed relationship has left me
with a scar. I run my fingers down
the rigid skin each day
at school, and remember.

A boyfriend I had in high school
called me selfish
when I told him I never
wanted to have children.

I’ve never left
the states. Never seen fresh
snow, never even been
to a wedding.

Marriage, as I understand,
marks the start of
the end. And it terrifies me
that so many people

start the end
before they’ve fully lived.
I’ve never been to
the grand canyon,

but I’ll probably be
married in New Mexico,
burning my dreams in
our backyard fire pit

before I get to go.

Root beer has a particular taste, I only
liked it with ice cream. You were the first
person I’d met over the age of eleven
that loved it. We’d always share drinks,
and you didn’t care what I liked.
I had a date recently who laughed
when I ordered such a childish soda.

At twenty years old, I needed total darkness
and silence to fall asleep. But you.
You needed the television on, or maybe
you had no preference, and just liked
to bicker. I’ve been sleeping with it on
for over a year now. My lullabies
rerun the theme songs of nineties sitcoms.

My back hasn’t cracked since February
of last year. It’s not your fault.
I’m not sure if I don’t ask someone
else to do it because I’m shy, or
because I want that pleasure to
exclusively come from you. I’ll admit
I miss you whenever my back aches.

I used to make my choices carefully,
keeping a menu of where I’d been.
Now they all taste the same to me.

My first boyfriend called me a tease.
It was over a year before I let him in.
I used to make my choices carefully.

Always tasted citrus gum on his teeth.
Orange-lime breath through a goofy grin.
Now they all taste the same to me.

Another guy smelled of tobacco and ****,
scratching his habits into my skin.
I used to make my choices carefully.

His kisses were like rice crispy treats,
sugary desserts while staying thin.
Now they all taste the same to me.

I go back in time whenever I’m lonely.
We’re eternally teenagers, acting on whims.
I used to make my choices carefully.
Now they all taste the same to me.

Sixteen year old girls hold
the answers to life.

They have ***
(with boys who have girlfriends,
across the front seat of an El Camino,
parked two houses down from her own,
where her parents await her return
no later than ten, unaware
that while they watch Jeopardy, their daughter's
hair rubs and frizzes against upholstery
that is older than her, and her head
occasionally bangs against the dark sidewalk
facing window, with a deep,
but gentle, thud)
and call it love.