of course it's raining. can you control the weather, too? you can take the stars and put them in your eyes and make flowers bloom with just a brush of your fingertips,
so of course i'd believe it.
yes, yes, today it is ninety-four degrees at only eleven in the morning. i can't help but think of the summer that the A/C broke and we sat in front of the fan wearing your tank tops and trying to stay still but i couldn't because you wanted me to sit in your lap and even though my back was slicked with sweat, you wrapped your arms around my waist and told me that i felt like a gust of wind.
i hate you.
i hate you i love you i hate you i miss you *i hate you. it was cloudy today, and i gave my best friend relationship advice. i told her, you can't function with unresolved issues. *******, why is it that i can never take my own advice? that's right. this is my fault. everything's my fault. i want you. i want you so much.
in the grocery store today, i spaced out while staring at a box of frosted flakes. when i came to, i had bought six boxes and eight gallons worth of milk. when i went to cross country practice, my time had doubled and my coach told me i couldn't run in our next race.
why are you doing this to me?
this is all your fault.
i saw you. i saw you today. on the green line, isn't that the one that stops at the outer city near my dorm? you had a very sad look on your face and a paper bag from my favorite bakery.
and you know, that sad look on your face gave me so much hope.
i finally did the pathetic, the cliched, the unforgivable—i ate an entire pint of ice cream and watched a sappy romance movie.
well, i watched dead poets society for the eighteenth time but i was crying regardless.
i cried myself to sleep for the thirteenth time last night. i feel like i'm a kid again. it is a disgusting sensation (a horrible childhood will cause such cynicism).
maybe i should forget you.
my running time is back to normal. i listened to the velvet underground's "******" and screamed that i guess i just don't know and ******, if that isn't true, there really might not be a god, or cupid, or an easter bunny.
i walked as straight a line as i could through the forest.
but really, i'd gone in a circle.
i didn't cry last night. i made myself some instant noodles and wrote my history thesis. i didn't think about you (that much).
must you haunt me, still? i heard you moved to the harbor. that's a ten minute walk from my dorm. you hate me. i know it.
i've decided: i will exorcise you from my being. at the coffee shop, a bearded barista told me that i was some kind of gorgeous.
today you were at the bookstore i work part-time at. you let your hair grow out a bit, it looked so sexily unkempt and i just wanted to run my fingers through it. you looked so tired, buying existentialism for dummies and those japanese greeting cards that everyone thinks are pretty but few venture to purchase. that white t-shirt somehow made you look like a god. i can't get over it.
but why did you stare at me? i was trying so very hard to shelve those useless self-help books.
i received a card today in the mail. it had a watercolor painting of a japanese temple covered in snow. i flipped it open.
how are you? you'd written. i made the wrong decision. will you meet me on the twenty-first, at the harbor? i want to convince you to love me again.
i sat at the dinner table and looked at the card for an hour.
i cannot go a day without finding my feet pulling me in the direction of your house. i've been waking up early to watch you run through the dawn. i can't sleep without dreaming of you, of us. i miss you.
though i should have been surprised, i asked why you broke up with me.
you were so good that it was bad for me.
i stood up and said okay, i started walking away, you grabbed my wrist and pulled me into your lap. the people sitting around us in the restaurant were gawking as you took my chin between your fingers and turned my head towards yours.
and you kissed me like the world was ending very slowly, like you'd never let go of me, like my lips were your source of life.
i went home feeling drunk, so i drank to feel true bacchanalia.
i woke up expecting you to be sitting at my desk, shirt off, reading the rilke you'd often pull from the bookshelf. i thought you were going to say, next time, come to my place so we don't get in trouble, with that grin of yours. you were going to remind me that i had an asian economics seminar in twenty minutes.
but you weren't there, and i was late for class.
i rented a bike today and went around the harbor. i got a pay raise at the bookstore, so i bought myself new running shoes and a black dress. i bought a crepe and with your favorite filling—white chocolate ice cream and bananas—even though i hate bananas.
i woke up in the middle of the day and straightened my hair, pulled on my new black dress, and a pair of electric blue pumps. red lipstick, black eyeliner.
my hair had grown, too. i wondered if i looked like a goddess to you.
i walked to the harbor and told you to meet me in ten minutes. when you came, there was a look of amazement in your eyes, and your gaze lingered on my legs.
what, i said. aren't you going to convince me to love you again?
compose an evening love song;
a road leaves evasively.
the new moon begins,
you read from my desk.
the beginning of the last verse comes from Rilke's "Evening Love Song"
my 100th poem on hellopoetry