And you said,
You and I as a couple
are as ironic
as Mother Teresa with a photon gun.
“Oh, I know. You are so handsome,
so witty and you really have your shit together.”
I guess it wasn’t funny.
A two year old letter
read and reread countless times lies
on the table. So little
is said in so many lines.
I can’t call you,
You’ll write me.
She must not know.
This was the final time.
Now, I mean it. I lost your number,
but called information. I promised
myself I wouldn’t call.
I didn’t leave a message, at least.
I made you a card, a pop-up.
When you open it, an angry fist
leaps out, flipping you off. On the back
I wrote you a letter, telling you
exactly how I feel.
But I scribbled it out,
feeling it’s all better left unsaid.
On the front
there is an image of me
at the bar.
And I guess I knew before I even came
that you would stand me up yet again.
I just knew.
And so little hurts me
now, really. I laugh
at the rest, those who claim
they love me. I don’t
care about them, I never have.
Yet the echo of your laughter still lingers in my mind
your smile clouds the edges of my eyes.
I think of us in the shower,
your face, the hot water, touching you.
I think of your expression
as you climax. Lying on my bed,
walking in the park, holding hands, pulling apart
when someone walked by.
and I now realize:
I never thanked you
for teaching me