When you left, all I had as proof that we dated was a bruise on my knee from the vicious corner of your too-long bed, and that catchy tune you wrote stuck in my head. What then, when those fade?
The night we thought of lyrics for the song you were writing while eating burritos in a sports bar—all I was really thinking about is how I’d always look back on that night as the night we thought of lyrics for the song you were writing while eating burritos in a sports bar.
How can something so intimate fade so quickly into an everlasting silence?
I think about exactly how many degrees separate our angled paths, and how the exponential space between them is surely an unending game of Chutes and Ladders.
The single most arousing thing you ever said to me: “Sylvia Plath was a total babe.”
You’re my realized pipe dream that got away.