I recognize
the song you're listening to.
I can hear it
humming out of your headphones
when you're sitting
on the chair next to me.
It's the same song
you've sung to me
on our second date,
in that restaurant
near the river.
It's the exact same song.
Or was that "Jeremy"?
Does it mean anything to you?
You don't seem to remember
(and neither do I, apparently),
it's become just some random song to you.
Maybe it always has been.
It's the same song
you used to sing whenever
you were in the mood to sing it.
You've sung it,
sitting on the sidewalk,
shouting it out to the world
with your headphones still on.
You didn't care about what
people would think.
You simply sat there
and sung,
texting me about it right away
-- my curb romantic.
If it hadn't been you,
I might have been embarassed,
but I never was.
It always made me smile,
even though the people
stopped and stared at us.
I loved your little craziness.
Sometimes I miss it so much it hurts.
It hurts, so that I can't breathe.
I miss you.
I miss you.
I miss you.
(But I don't want you back.)