Whenever I think of that
Stupidly good picture you
Took when you had the flu,
I smile that same smile
And put on that song,
And entertain for a second
The idiotic notion
Of being in love.

God, you're such an idiot.
I was fifteen and you had
An English accent.
I was sixteen and you
Were twenty-two.
I was seventeen and wearing
The necklace you gave me every day.
I'm eighteen and I still do.

I had to buy a new notebook
Because the last one was
Three years of your name
Written over and over again
With increasing impatience
And disintegrating vagueness.

I only write about you in black ink.

I only write about you.