We were comfortable with eachother, but not close
the way you said you'd hug relatives you only saw at Christmas
but you didn't tell them about prom
and what happened there in the sweaty backseat
of Todd's father's Lincoln.
I never told you about the time I saw you crying
outside the gas station at one AM
your eye swelling and turning lavender
You looked jaundiced in the street lamp's sick pool of light
but I was too busy thinking
of excuses for my parents
to wonder who you were running from.
Why didn't I stop?
I saw you in school week after week
but I never told you that I knew
no, I locked it in my gut and force-forgot.
I have so many questions for you now,
but I haven't seen you since tenth grade
and you're not in the phone book.
Are you married?
Do you have a baby?
I want to apologize
I had only just learned to blind
with my eyes open.
4 September 2000