Gimpse in the mirror, hair cascading down
emerald eyes piercing the reflection that isn't entirely yours.
Suddenly you see yourself age 78
overlooking the sea on the balcony, wrinkles traced in hands.
The Bainbridge ferry streams along like always,
dropping off passengers on King Street.
Girls and boys strolling down the avenue
happiness and dreams circling their trails.

You are only twenty. You should be experiencing this too.

Holidays at the pond
reminded you that you were always going to be alone
and look at where you are now.
No one will see the lights with you. No one wants to see
a smile at the bokeh, the incandescent halos
wrapped around the bridges.

You only wanted to be happy.

I want the edge of Christmas, where the nights look like it's about to snow, and only the brake lights of cars are seen. The chilly air whips your cheeks as you leave the building. And because you know Christmas is coming, the nights don't seem so lonely anymore.

the song you listen to on blast
as you wander around campus
8:53 pm
and the holidays are approaching,
you know you are still alone.
even with your family, you are alone.
no one loves you,
the whole of you.
not yet.
but you wonder
if ever
will there be such a person
to walk along transatlanticism with you
in such a moment like this?

Some nights music has to be turned up
at the highest volume
so that my thoughts
do not **** me in my sleep

Reglossing, rewashing, removing, returning,
she kept using the same cloth to wipe up this mess.
All of the same mistakes constantly repeating,
spools of half-hearted "I'm sorry's" unwinding,
foolproof promise to cover for her missed absence.

I persist reloading, rewinding, replaying
watching the film of our lives together, pausing
at moments where temporarily, I confess,
unpredictable happiness ceased repeating.
This trainwreck of a show carries on, blistering
slides that I want to swipe clean, but her name suppress
stained slates developing, deflecting, destroying.

I throw away the footage, romanticizing  
sheer ideas of finally making progress
forgetting her. But relapse results repeating
bad habits. There is not a remedy. I cling
to the seasons of the past, wanting to digress
reminding, rewinding, removing, regretting.
'Til the cloth clears again, chaos keeps repeating.

You made it clear that you moved on
without texting me "happy birthday"
five months ago.
That's what we always did, even
when we fell out.
Now it's your turn to turn twenty
and I don't know how to deal with this situation.
I want to let you know
that I think of you all the way home
rooted in thoughts that wonder
what our lives would be like if we still talked.
I want to let you know
because you ignored me
I do not want to ignore you,
but I feel that given with your apathetic, unexisted reply,
I have no choice.