I’m sorry. It’s such a frightening
thing. While I’m covered in airborne dust
and dirt, somewhere out of the desert
you dream of losing a girl you never had.

Under a straw sunhat, I argue with a chubby bartender
who insists my “over twenty-one” wristband
is not enough to justify selling an overpriced beer
to my baby face. I run through crowds, back

to my campsite, cursing her under my breath
for delaying my drunken dance. But somewhere else—
out of the heat and the food trucks and the live music
and the showers in the backs of trucks—you know.

And you prepare yourself for the path I am down,
where I miss Frank Turner for the sake of stumbling,
and later my legs will tremble under a tent
that may or may not be my own.

Under
the lemon tree
we used to see ghosts. They
would just sit there and glare at us,
waiting.

Is is trust
or disrespect
that swerves
avoiding cats
but carelessly
bulldozes pigeons—
who make it out
just in time?

So, here we are
again. ******* smoke
through glass straws
and frequenting the local
food trucks. Here we are,
pressing our chins
into our chests to see
who has more, only
so we can laugh about
it and somehow end up
losing our clothes.

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.

You like
to play this game.
A vortex of *******,
change the face of who you’re kissing,
pretend.