You were there that May morning when all was new,
when faces were foreign and blank,
and I was feeling lost and stout and irrevocably askew.

I was an amateur to your
perfect physicality, your determined expertise.
You were dark and tall and incredibly

nonchalant, and I foolishly let you crawl
so very deeply inside my head.
And in there you were kept

all the days between middle May to
that August weekend. Which would’ve been fine,
except my worship needed a God,

and God only knows
I revered too deeply in your idea.
I don’t like to suppose,

but forgive me for supposing
that you liked me too.
I remember how you called me pretty;

I think you thought it true
for sincerity suffered in your eyes
and I saw how the feeling in you grew.

I wonder if you still believe what you said. 
I’m sorry I didn’t respond;
I’m scared I made you up inside my head.

I haven’t seen you in a month.
You call to say you’d pick me up
and I was so enthralled

I wake an hour and fourteen
minutes early to prepare. It’s 5am
when you finally arrive,

your car a nervous beast
panting hot air in the drive,
two blinking eyes beaming at me.

All at once I’m uncertain
of where to put this feeling;
it grows with every breath

and I’m so damn sure I’ll
never feel this way again.
So I climb into your red

before you fly far away,
and forget to feel despair
in the struggling newborn day.

But there is never an indication,
a caution, a fluorescent warning
that these paths will fall apart

because it’s now mid-morning in November,
six months since the beginning,
three months since the part.

And it’s so strange to contemplate
how you were once my fervent belief
because I no longer follow your philosophy.

Now you are nothing more than a dying art;
a lonely figure, silhouetted against the
chaotic collapse of my fleeting memory.