09 February 2015 "Just Once"

When I took Art History

last semester, I was always willing

to skip class.

Giotto means nothing,

especially not when pale fresco

is more forgettable than

wispy clouds from a

cigarette someone else is smoking.

All I wanted from my first year here

was to understand something more

than what the boy from last summer

taught me:

it feels a certain type of way

when there is something foreign

in the space between the trees.

It’s funny that

what we see isn’t necessarily

what we believe.

Because when all it takes is a cab ride,

I tend to forget that

whether he’s holding my hand

or not

doesn’t matter because

the moon never shimmers

in hindsight. So

tomorrow morning he’ll be swiping out

all possibilities

and tomorrow afternoon

I’ll shower and get dressed

alone.