in june when we first laid eyes
all i wanted to do was love you, i knew you
boy in a sweater too warm for the weather,
eyes like crystal balls in which i would rarely see the wistful used-to.
the you who laughed more and deeper than the slight shameful giggle,
ate oreos and played with wreckless joy in the filthy ball pits of fast food.
in september i met you again in the bronx,
when our hair was both long and we both still had freckles.
in your small unsatisfied room you spoke me your speech,
so i met your dry lips of significance.
then in november your hapless hands led me into adulthood,
and i silently cried into your hair the same color as mine, like feather down of new chickens i'd hold in august.
in february the crystal balls had smashed and our freckles were gone.
you tore your posters down and chased me outside barefoot over solid ice.
in april i stood on the ground and screamed at your fifth floor window,
petty insults you'd counter with routine apathy.
of course an hour later i would sleepwalk into your dark room,
unlocked with shaking fingers of regret four numbers i knew better than a prayer.
in december when we last laid eyes
all i wanted to do was hate you, i knew you
