I like it when he
rests his head
on my shoulder
as if to let me know
that he is really
here with me
and not just another
sick memory
from what we were.

I like the way
his hair strands
tickle through
the sheers of my
shirt, breeze
sifting through
the vents of his lips,
cooling my warm skin.

He is *here.

Fingers locked
     in female hands
a riddle
   like legs     free of clothes
   crumpled jumpers
     in a corner
resembling a salad
of what-the-hell-went-on
last night   greeny-reds.

   Dolled up
bees' knees
     next time
not a person to     impress
or   dazzle   with a fedora
   top-shelf aftershave
charcoal-black shoes
gobbling     this week's wages.

Miss your     mouth
                              completely
see if you   tick
the thirty-one boxes
     know nail polish
     birthdays
better than second-hand
lips   and teeth   and tongues
   and lips
stash wit in a drawer
humour   under the bed.

Spot the odd   one   out
like finding a disease
     in a bloodstream
always observe
     an   owl   in the room
   watch others hurl feelings
I miss   you's   about
gobbledygook
resort to stories
     only your pillow knows
they want the     fire
not a                           lonely snowman.

i remember i loved you so much
that i left a bowl of dry ingredients for brownies
stranded in the kitchen when you asked me
to come over.

and when you came home from toronto
and i got off of my third or fourth shift
at my first job
i left early and i ran to your house.

and for your 17th birthday (before i acquired
my majestic cupcake gig)
i spent all my babysitting money on
a worn sweater with the gucci label screened
onto it.
i had planned this months before we even dated,
i remember thinking we were going to be so close
that it would warrant me getting you a present.
i had only kissed you once and had only spoken to you
for two months.

and i still remember what i wore the first time
we hung out (rose gold crop sweater, black jeans, brown boots)
and what i wore the first time we kissed (tights, black romper, braided belt, earrings that kept falling out)
and what i wore when we broke up (flats, black high waisted skater skirt, weird 90s crop bustier)
and what i wore when i saw you for the first time afterwards (light wash jeans, grey knit top, pink sparrys)
and what i wore when we had our end of the line fight (black jeans, purple halter top)
the times i saw you after weren't overly notable, you reached out and i recoiled. you noogied me and i didn't let my friends make fun of you.
and then you asked me to start coming over again (light blue jeans, navy turtleneck)

i'm not sure what this poem was ever supposed to be.
i wish i remembered what i wore the night you told me
that you missed me.
but since you've been back, or i've been back, or we've been back
i only remember what it is to be with you.

we'll keep growing.

*11:18 P.M. June/22/2014