I could write a poem that no one could
tell was for you. I’d write about the first
time we met in kindergarten. Playing
house under the loft with the plastic kitchen,
taking turns pretending to be the mom. I’d write
about how we drove through the devil’s dandruff,
the snow was so dense, we couldn’t see the car
in front of us, so I could get the black and gray
Vans I liked. The ones that are now torn
on the sides and missing a shoe lace.
I’d tell about the glint in your eyes as you swat
the hair from your face, the way you
make sure your toss is high enough to spiral
across the green cracked pavement.
I’d say how your voice echoes.
through the courts when you say,
“Love all.” I’d describe the countdown
on your phone, reminding me that we’re
living in different states soon, that we’re
going our separate ways, that we’re
almost out of time.
It’s like the pages of a calendar blowing away
day by day. The stack of pages getting thinner.
The rigid edge from the tears ripping the
memories out of my mind one by one.