It is the third
for two more minutes
and it is no longer lucky.
It is the way I asked you to be mine
over telephone lines
and now I don’t even have your number.
It is the way you kissed me in a drizzle,
made me feel some kind of special,
and pushed your heart too hard, too fast
to where you couldn’t breathe with me beside you.
It is the way I didn’t ask you on a date,
but I sat shaking in my seat, watching you,
watching me, thinking,
knowing nothing could come of it anyway,
sober or sex free.
It is the month you drove
back and forth down a random street,
waiting for me like a beacon,
like a phantom,
staring at each other like “action”
Until the next day when I woke up and thought
“Did that really happen?”
It is the fourth,
and three minutes.
It has always been my favorite number,
but it has never been lucky