When the first boy who leaves
goose bumps trailing your skin
plays your favorite Death Cab for Cutie
song on guitar--stop him.

With the notes wedged under
his fingernails, stuck
like they are in your head,
you'll never be able to listen again
without cringing.

It's 3AM when you're clawing
bones to hold yourself
together, you wonder:
"Is the memory of me a light
peppering his ceiling,
keeping him awake?"

"Love" should have stayed
a word, not a fight.  Loneliness is a date
spent sniveling into the sleeve of a
different boy because Chili's played
your favorite Death Cab for Cutie song.

But if he comes back, asking
for a poem--don't write one.
It won't be any more appreciated
than you were two years ago.