I had an *******.
Not because I'm some sick **** who gets off on girls crying
but instead, because I got to hold her in my arms one last time
I found it odd
that she was taking comfort from her insanity by confiding in the very person who had caused it
as if she were finding solace in the arms of her problem
and as the apocalyptic rain outside locked us in that car like a coffin I would have gladly been buried in
I remarked to myself that her smell reminded me of cherry blossom trees.
A tree that I don't think I've even even seen in real life,
much less smelled before.

When I was in Korea I wrote her an e-mail
It said something like
"Hey, I don't know if you care anymore but you were right all along and I'm just now realizing that"
I never sent it
but I didn't delete it either and so for days afterward it haunted me
My e-mail drafts folder screaming out the number "1".

After we were finished but before the dust had settled we spoke a lot about regret and she said things like
"I'm glad we tried but we both knew it would end up like this."
Well I sure as **** didn't. Why the hell do you think I tried in the first place.
I think it became very important to her not to be one of my regrets.
Which makes sense, right? No one wants to be a regret
and so I resolved that if she ever asked me if I regretted her, if I regretted us I would instead ask her a question in response.
I would ask her if I helped her in any way.
If I helped her take control of her nerves
If I helped her get a hold of her anxiety
much like a sexually frustrated boy holding onto a crying girl during a rainstorm
And if she answered yes to my question,
If she said "Yes, Mike you did help me."
Then I would answer her question about regret by saying no

I don't need to worry about that though.
I don't need to worry about her asking me anything
because since I've been back from Korea, she's said exactly three words to me.
They were said at a party of a mutual friend of ours about six months since we had last spoken.
The words were "Can you twerk?"

And if we take our imaginary camera now and shift it out of that house
down the street
to a new street
to a new city
to my street
to my house
to my room
to my laptop
to my e-mail drafts folder
it still screams out the number "1"

And as we stood in the circle of our mutual friends and poked fun at a ridiculous dance craze
something cut through the haze of alcohol that hung in the air in order to penetrate my nostril
and for a brief instant
I was reminded of a tree that I don't think I've even seen in real life
much less smelled before.

A girl named Mc Stickle
Was in quite a pickle
This girl had every reason to hide
Her lines wouldn't work
For attention, she twerked
Oh this girl, oh this generation, oh my.