listen--
         it's two-thirty in the morning.
         there is a song playing, and it doesn't remind me of you,
         but i thought you should know
         because this next part is important.

the singer is Elliott Smith,
         and he's kissing his darling between jailbird bars
         just like that time--remember?--when we kissed
         through the gap in the barbed wire,
         and our hearts danced like the strobe of police lights.

                      (we were trespassing)

i'm not thinking of you,
        because while i'm out here smoking,
        and i wet my lips so the paper doesn't stick to them like heartbreak,
        i don't imagine your cherry Chapstick or the way it left
        mellow pink stains on your cigarette filters.

these are the facts:
        i've nearly forgotten you;
        i'm not still hung up on the smell of lavender handsoap;
        i haven't rifled through a single Facebook album;
        i don't know the name, address, and telephone number

                    (not to mention, i haven't memorized a single
                               stupid, snarky tweet)

of your new boyfriend
       with the pretentious French last name.
       anyway, i don't know why i decided to call,
       i guess it was just to let you know
       how i'm doing just fine without you.