eighteen
breathless, you wrote words to me and though you never said it i caught it so clearly: happy mother fucking birthday. all in one breath, just like that, because you couldn’t spare two last night. i realized that i don’t even think you remembered it would be my birthday soon. but do you remember how we spent it wandering around lawrence where we’d both be together only a year point five later and where we hid from my mother in dressing room stalls and i remember the first time you called. when i heard your voice. for the first time. or do you remember your prom? and how we didn’t go and we didn’t notice. how i kind of liked prom night when it was with you. do you remember any of that? or do i have to remind you. maybe you could tell me why i only remember all the dirty things i’ve done (even if they were three poems and 2 years ago) and i forget what was beautiful. you