The way you look at me is not love.
It’s the three a.m conversation in high school about death,
and maybe an unexpected empty cab in the rain. 
Your hands were softer when you spoke about all the days
that fit in  front seats or when you sidled-up against the plans
you crossed all those streets for.
Those girls who cried over Bruce Springsteen instead of you.
You were on the wrestling team and tossed yourself
against dusty mats.
I hid with Marlboro's in the cave of the bathroom.
You told me that boys never marry the girls with deep cuts 
across their wrists, the ones with angry hair under caps.
You tried to show me math with Crosby, Stills and Nash
whispering down my neck.
I wrote poetry in your bathroom after opening all your cabinets
None of your soap was scented but they were in shapes like
stars and fish.
Your mother had clouds on the ceiling.
Once after history, we sat on the steps and I told you how 
things were.
The sun was in your eyes.
Your sister smoked cigarettes with me in the back of the high 
school our last summer there.
It was our puffed-up secret.
But I'll tell it to you now.