in the style of a predictable girl,
the two primary loves of my life
were both born today.
and they are both gone.

one out west,
the other out of mind.
and i, east-bound unlikely
with a myriad of tradition
between my fingertips,
yellowed photo paper
and a cigarette.

he wrote the number on the back.
still your mother's house,
your name on the mailbox.
the house blaringly apparent,
as though it were always there,
and you, inside.

the last time i took you home,
you stumbled drunk inside,
begged me to join you.
forgotten, momentarily
that another woman shared your bed,
and i, so frequently
have replayed the scene,
the dismount from your lips
that turned into a peck on the cheek,
insecure and somewhat violated.

my other star-crossed capricorn
was never a romantic.
his bottles of perfume every christmas
still line the vanity of my old bedroom,
yet thinking back
i cannot remember much with him.
the houseboat, the docked shore,
the yellow t-shirt, and the back-deck.
ralph's fishing station, and the sump
behind the shopping center.
we only kissed a handful of times,
we were innocents in our parent's cars,
holding hands in the theatre.

happy birthday, both of you,
i loved you differently and very much the same.
you took ten years of me and turned them into
my circus show of ill-fated relationships.

01/08/2008

Posted on 01/08/2008
Copyright © 2024 Lauren Singer