I can’t remember what room I was in
15 years old
involuntary 24 hour hold
in the elmwood village

now I look over my yard
past the liquor store
to the the abandoned glass faces
of your darkened rooms

wonder what I would tell her
wonder what she would see, looking out

I don’t remember the view
don’t remember the way these white lines
must’ve looked fresh
red, raw, and new

but I imagine
her looking out at me

while I smoke a cigarette
while onyx tosses a stick
while walking hodge in twilight hours
while I write these words

what is it I would tell her
what could ten years offer her
to console
to comfort

all I see are black abandoned faces
in groups of three
empty rooms

ghosts of girls long dead
or recovered.

I used to say your name like a prayer
over and over in my head
sitting curbside next to a sewer drain
dropping cigarette butts into the abyss as an offering.

it’s a type of madness that I revisit
from time to time.

different names, different prayers.
cigarette butts and sewer drains.

today I went and bought a 6 pack
we had a blizzard rolling in so I
drove off and decided,
"my first legal buy", and some noodles.

and I looked at just about every 6 pack
the packaging, the price, the abv.
you were such a beer snob
and yet I loved you for it.

maybe I would've found any excuse to love you.
maybe that's what love really is.

I don't remember much of that month,
anymore.
but on your wall I can see
all of the things I bought and drank
when I felt loved and so much better off.

and for whatever reason,
the black sheep lager, I remember.
I wasn't with you, but I was proud of you
for it,
for picking it out.

maybe I would've found any excuse to like it.
maybe that's what love really is.

but anyways,
I kept thinking, which is never good,
that the beer was awesome
that black sheep was the height of summer
that black sheep brought me close to you.

each and every time I saw it on your wall
I thought
this isn't over
it happened
it's real.

well it was,
and it wasn't.

maybe that's what love really is.

but the beer
the black sheep
it doesn't taste at all
like I remembered it did.

like all your favorite beers, it is bitter.
like all unrequited, half-forgotten loves,
it is bitter.

having every other time
earned my automatic forgiveness;
I cannot find a way to make you feel
the anger that burns me up from within
like a boiling fountain deep inside my guts
that spills scalding tears I cannot stop.

and I will not wait
for you to need me;
just so I can let you down
to see if you will hurt
the way I have.

no, I will not wait.
I will never wait for you again.

past three a.m. you don't exist
except for this time when you
thought you could walk in and
exist here.

listen, these amphetamines
make me far too honest.

you can't be here
while I'm jawing out
because
I'd love to talk to you.

the summer days when
my bracelets graced your coffee table
were by far the best
that I ever had.