I was never there in your vintage sweater,
standing at the convenience store
when you failed to toss the cigarette out, or me.
I was never there when you got us pizza,
and we did the same walk four times
just to see each other in a different light.
I was never there after you got the news,
and you looked like you were crying
when your mom called and I left quietly.
I was never there when you laid asleep,
picking up my clothes softly to tie up
the loose ends of whatever we were doing.
I was never there,
because I never let me stay to begin with.