the thing is
I could hate myself
but what would be the point
when I was never so happy
as when you tried to light my cat on fire
with your cigarette.
your ice blue eyes sliced with stripes of gold,
dressed all in black and grey,
we laughed up to the tops of the pine trees,
folds of navy blue blanket all over the ground,
surrounded by brittle leaves that you had
burned holes through.
the sky was white
and life moved quickly
and the next day at school
we ignored each other.

the thing is
I could cry to the point of dehydration
but what would be the point
when I was never so happy
as when we sat in a café filled with ***** people
with dirtier thoughts and pure smiles
and you told me that there's no such thing
as writer's block.
we sipped our rice milk tea
and you said to go ahead and write that love story,
because every love is different.
your pet fish sat on the table
as we laughed on the couch,
eliciting hidden smiles from sad people.
the sky was blue
and you walked me to my car
and you were embarrassed
about your forbidden muse.

the thing is
I really could **** myself
but really, what would be the point
when I was never so happy
as when I felt you behind me,
drowsy in the night,
and I could feel you kiss the back of my hair
and your fingers clutch the fabric
on my stomach,
someone else's golden curls and soft skin
against my cheek,
remembering your sparkling emerald eyes
reflected along with the wire metal fence
and the white orbs of light
floating in the water of the porcelain bathtub
drinking tea and sleeping with the blanket of love
and scalding water
encasing us.
and as crickets sounded outside the windowpane
and I felt your hand melt into mine,
the smell of strawberries like ghosts sleeping in blankets
and I thought about how much
the absence of my first love resonated
in my lungs,
the sky was purple
and I never wanted to leave your embrace
and I've never loved anybody so quickly.