I taught you
how to say my name correctly
Uhn-juh-nuh
and you taught me
how to say the name of your hometown
Can-an-day-gua.
A fair exchange,
perhaps.
Canandaigua.
Town that manufactured
Arbor Mist,
the cheap artificial wine I bought
[being the only one of drinking age]
that we drank
all summer,
well,
until July
when everything fell apart.
In August
When things settled down
when you decided that
you didn’t love me anymore,
we issued that age old
empty promise exes make:
“We’ll still be friends.”
Exchanged a few Facebook messages
and that was that.
I was never in love with you,
but
you still made it into my zine,
and I still think of you
from time to time,
visit your Facebook page
as if...
well, who knows?
It’s always the same with
everyone I used to know,
but Over is Over,
no social media changes that.
When I see that name:
Canandaigua,
I think of you,
but it’s just another name
and you’re just another Over.
