saucers and teacups piled on the table
yours, V. =)
the stained tablecloth catches on my jeans and
rips from the table -
I'm not a magician, who can give one majestic tug
and nothing breaks;
the china s hat t e rs into
jabbing shards and painful dust.
hands shaking, I clumsily collect
them into a dustpan, broken bits tinkling
like an echo of our uncontainable
I want to piece
them back tog-
er, but I know
there's no point;
we can talk about this tomorrow, or if you prefer,
pretend you never read this -
memories re-pieced aren't accurate, and
I never bothered memorizing this one, because I
was afraid touching your scrawled note would
me - the writing on the scrapped page
dampening the paper,
my emotions flaming like
even recalling the words now, the ink is
with blurriness of time,
proactive water to put out
I think I like you -
so I dump the broken bits into the
trash, carry it out to
and wave it
when the garbage truck comes.
a few days blurrier, and I regret it,
even though I know the saucers are
but here I am, crawling on hands and knees
my hands imprinted with blunt
shapes; my feet raw.
I knock music rehearsals loose with my
and they clatter to the ground,
dissonant with flat notes and
I don't know if you even like girls but -
dirt working its way under my nails;
I hit something hard.
the trash re-
veals a grimy pane of glass,
weakly supporting my weight.
I see you below,
and wonder if you kept my reply.
I feel like an awful friend -
I'm sorry V., I don't think I feel like that for you but
can we still be friends?
- I couldn't keep your sincere emotions, that you
scribbled on the back of a semester-old,
half-decomposed math note,
I hope this doesn't change anything,
I really like sitting with you in math -
it's buried in some landfill now
and paper isn't plastic, so
time will blurry the words into nothing.