The day I met you

was the day my friend died

but a dozen years later.

I didn’t realize, biking

across the bridge, watching

your silhouette

as you waved and waved

for me to catch up,

shattering the glass

at the hockey bar

in the glow of the game

that we didn’t watch, sleeping

next to the newness of you.

How we speed through,

past the day our days

will stop. I won’t say

I’ve done my best.

So many days

I do my worst on purpose.

Who knows what it’s for.

I pace your apartment

in the night, sirens wailing.

You had a stupid tattoo;

you named your dog

for a fruit; you wore a color

that felt like green.

I’m trying to remember

something about my life.

As dawn slips in

you slap my ass

and I hate it, but then,

a few days later, I don’t.