I tell her,
“I wasn’t in love with him,
but I could’ve been.”
And she says,
“Write a poem.
Because that’s beautiful.”
Because poetry revolves around you.
Like it’s that easy.
Like I think you may actually like me.
Because notions are put in my head,
that you were the last person to look at me
and not just my body.
You were last person to caress instead of grope any
skin that was showing.
You were the last person to listen to me.
You were the last person to look at me.
And when I tell her I can’t stop looking at your mouth,
when I tell I know I’m going to have to do without,
when I tell her I know we can’t be—-
Dear God, do I wish that
could turn to
maybe it’s those brown eyes.
Because I’ve never shed a layer for any man,
but there’s something intimate and exposed
when you look at me.
And when she says
Despite missing the attention,
despite my constant craving for affection,
it is your gaze I am picturing.
Because you were the first guy,
the first person,
who didn’t know me,
but looked at me
like I was something,
and when I remember that,
it’s a damn shame
that “could’ve been”