i wait all summer (like fall never comes)

a wristband snapped perhaps
three months to the minute since
i found out it took you and i lie
here wearing a new one not
knowing how to do anything
like tell your husband i think
of him every time i think of you
and i wonder how he moves
on with his life without you when
sometimes it’s just a glimpse of
a title and everything’s so heavy
and my eyes are all sore and
my skin is all wet and i wish i
could just interrupt his life with
these trivial things that i should
have interrupted yours with while
you were still here to hear me.




I saw a guy reading Franny and Zooey on the bus,
and I thought about sending you a text.

I drew a Tralfamadorian and a choice quote,
which I’ll rebelliously tattoo on my back,
and I thought about sending you a picture.

I met you and your husband for lunch,
and I promised I would keep in touch.

I promised,
but I only thought,
and never acted.

But I hugged you in a movie theatre,
fifteen months before you’d die,
and I’m glad I said, “I love you.”



A Thousand Miles

In the lobby of a movie theater,
I quietly, patiently,
stand behind two strangers
(to me, at least),


No, you.

I am a thousand miles from home—
or perhaps a thousand miles closer—
holding on tight
to Gold,
in fear and regret
that I might not
have this chance again.

“I love you,”
I (have never) said,
out of instinct