Baseball caps remind me of you.
Not because you used to stand in the outfield with your mitted palm facing upward, patiently waiting for the ball to hit your glove.
Nor because that ball once hit your face, causing your nerves to jumble. And now when I stroke your cheek,
I coincidentally tickle your lip instead.
Not because you went to a Yankee game on the same day that you ****** her.
Or because I hide when I think you are near, with the same success of a celebrity avoiding paparazzi on a crowded manhattan street corner.

But because his birthday fell on the day that I thought I might love you.
I called to say I was outside.
You opened the backdoor of your building wearing a tattered hand-me-down baseball cap that darkened your eyes.
As I got closer your eyes emerged and met mine from the side of the brim.
I sat up and we both reached for my blouse.
But I kissed you goodbye,
And I ran home to him.