At Least

Whitetop, pink shoes, and blue jeans.

I can wait for my turn on the registration desk,

Counting onto the passing slots,

I had to get the name correct

Because who asks for the name on the first day, at first sight, nerves were tight, her face radiated bright, my legs backed up with fright.

At least I know her name now.

.

.

I am sure those were blue jeans.

Don’t you have too many friends,

In the search for the sight, when my eyes are not alone

They remember the stories of the place; I remember the places with you.

I think your eyes saw mine, my heart sighs, racing like a war cry or was it the other guy, maybe you never knew who am I.

At least I know her eyes now.

.

.

Pink shoes are too orthodox, I know you would always choose white.

The neck aches with every turn for your tranquilizing smile,

The eternal few seconds of my life when you sat beside me,

A year later your text professed the awkward staring boy, “a decent guy”

You never knew the admiration was a disguise, the seat next to you, the seat on your flat’s couch, the seat of my writing corner of the shared house, as I sit with your name, my poem, and our story.

At least I know her smile now.

.

.

She agreed it must have been the pink top, my delusional memory drives were right

Living with no regrets as you hustled through the stereotypes,

“I don’t know if it could be ‘we’.” I never knew you meant for life.

With texts being my only witness, won’t you stay to say the love wasn’t a lie,

My warm little heart lies in your body, helpless, senseless, emotionless, meaningless, as you leave me, identity less.

At least I know her star now.