I Will Never Be Your Girl
I know how it looks.
Falling over myself, and over those January mornings,
Awake because we never slept.
The mouth noises, the belt loops, the musical and personal
Notes that flew from lips shut tight against the cold
Future.
Against February.
I know how it looks.
Low-cut shirts and flirty eyes.
You unshaven, my secret words pictures enticements
Perchance. One of the ultimate “out of reach”es.
I could barely touch you, even on tiptoe.
The world around me has always been too tall, you see.
Or I’m too short.
Double meanings hidden under the piano in Presser 110.
Close your eyes.
Oxygen? Nicotine.
Remember me?
I want that journal back.
All my thoughts.
Oh, my lists! I had forgotten.
What if I need them again? To add, or simply to
Remember me.
I know how it looks.
Together every minute. “Are they?” whispers the sidewalk
The bench the car.
“No” replies the girl the girl the girl.
Three girls. Three months too late.
Tequila tongued kisses, collapsing on the bathroom floor.
Our first.
Awkward under my quilt (that now smells like him, though
then of her)
The audience rooted for us.
She rooted for us.
I rooted for her.
Together every minute.
“Did it happen to us? Did we wait too long?” asks the
Beautiful one.
“Yes” replies the girl.
One girl. One word.
I know how it looks.
Boozy, red bra, belt undone, shirt off before I can catch
A breath…of smoke?
A stolen hat - of course I know who the Astros are.
No, I won’t sleep with you.
Or, well, maybe a little.
Bruised in more ways than one,
Vague images blurry like the sunrise cigarette.
Naked in a tree?
Yes, I said. That’s the real me.
I know how it looks.
I do.
But, for the life of me, I can’t remember
How it feels.
