I could write a poem that
no one could tell was for you,
It would be about vanilla gelato
ice cream dripping from a
sugar cone in a sweaty palm,
a collection of vinyl records that
were always talked about but
never bothered to be listened to.
I’d describe the trees around
a hot, brown bench where we had
our last warm words before a fire
broke out, how I adjusted the car
seat after you slammed a broken
silver door, and gave me a grin as
you walked back to your house.
I could write about a bonfire
with flames dancing in blur
all summer long,
a dog running through wet grass,
barking endlessly as if it
was a warning.
A flushed face, three desks away,
turning your head in silence
towards an empty black board,
on the very first day
of September.