We always dreamed of
boarding that plane
and running away
to some old countryside in Europe
and you’d sell your poetry
to printing presses and
I’d play my songs
in shopping streets,

and boy, were we clueless
that a year later,
you’ll be running your fingers
down his spine to his tailbone,
as if they are the spaces
between the horizontal lines of your paper,

and I’ll be running high
on caffeine and regrets
and playing new songs about you —

new songs

you’ll never hear.