i hated him, i really did,
the way he didn't know
how to cut his hair
or tie his shoes
without them coming all undone,
and he couldn't dance
even though he tried
and he aimed too high
and he fell too far.

and we'd talk and talk
for hours, under the guise
of academia or friendship,
and then he wouldn't talk to me
for a month

but he'd come back
and sit on my shoulder,
taking about symbolism
and soviet russia
with splayed hands
and neuroses and swedish fish
in his mouth.

i might have kissed him.

i might have.
but i didn't.

and he talked about
how his brother had coffee
with anarchists in concrete rooms
and then his brother
made big plans,
he went to germany and fell in love
and pretended to be drunk
with short korean boys.

and he talked about
his typewriter and his poetry.
i think he thought
he was ginsberg
but he was just
a little boy.

and now he's writing
acid-sweet love poetry
for other girls,
to the best
of the best,

who are slowly falling
into spring fever,
to love on yellow tulips
made of blushing grace,
to love not involving him,
not at all,

leaving him alone
with his notebook
and nietzsche.

i am just alone
as he is.

and you know,
i hated him, i really
really hated him.