I don't know if anyone's ever told you this before,
but Trying To Forget You
is a man who smells like you,
and smiles like you,
and he's really got your walk down.

He's got sandalwood and sunlit skin,
thin limbs that speak with slow, smooth movements
of his tongue,
sung along to old Doors songs
teeth grinning, earnest, tarnished,

bent

Like the pages of the books we borrowed forth and back
and never read.
They sit next to our beds
and wait for us to open,
just slightly misplaced and
oddly obsolete.

Today I shopped for new books
hoping to learn
to Take My French Further and Do It Myself!
I turned ambitions into salvations,
and stacked them close to my chest,
hoping that, with them, I could
forget Trying To
Forget You.

I saw him, though,
in "Culture and Society"
(your favorite section, tragically next to "Feminism".)

And then, again
sprawled out comfortably
sipping green tea
in the cafe.

So I walked--no, ran--away,
weaving in and out of the shelves I've found and made familiar,
tracing the spines
of titles that rise
from the worn, carpeted ground.

Kneeling, my hands opened
to forgotten names,
hoping to learn,
in their thin refrains,
how to say
all of this.
(Because maybe if I write down all the sadness, it'll disappear.)

But all I could think
was "Thank. Fucking. God
you never read poetry."

Labels: By Ana