And the next thing I know, you’re seeing me without make-up;
completely exposed, mind you, and you don’t even know
that my mask of powder is not on until I say so
and then you’re falling asleep,
face illuminated by the light of your TV and
you’re asking if you can say something
without it being weird
and I’m saying yes,
and you called me:
Like a little sister.
And I’m not playing that memory on repeat,
I’m not having your voice play in my head like a broken record.
I am mourning
the way we were
the beautiful thing we had
if only for a month
before it was torn away
I am mourning the melted
mint chocolate chip.