We used to sit in your parent's basement with your two dogs on their little beds in the corner by the old desktop computer, wooden hand-me-down grandmother cabinetry, lace doilies underneath all the candles on the coffee table. I made you turn out the lights. We would sit there and pretend that we could find something better to do than kiss between commercials or talk about all the things we used to dream about in high school, how I got mine and how yours were like the back bumper of a car that got left out in the rain too long-- a little rusty.
Your kissing was a little rusty, but I let it go because you didn't make fun of me ordering a double grilled cheese on our first date. You also didn't judge when I got drips on my dress from my ice cream cone. I can still remember the way you'd yell at me for stopping too far out at intersections, laughing how I was gonna get us killed one day, but I think you just really loved to hear me sing over you. I think you really loved
me, and here I was playing teeter totter on curbs in little jean shorts with a guy who gave me a slice of leftover pizza. Here I was, burning down your own ambitions because they didn't seem as glittery as my own, because you didn't quite match all the sketches, all the plans I had on my map. Because if we were to draw straws I always thought you would come up a little short. I think you really loved me and I left you like a penny in between that couch we used to sit on.