i wait for you,

tapping one blue mary jane

against the concrete.

this is your reflection against

the white stucco houses' silhouettes

you'd trace your shadow in yellow

blackboard chalk

leaving behind

indistinct outlines.

i part my lips but

no sound leaks into this

already word-ridden

noise-laden atmosphere-

(and i was hoping you'd say:

but what is din without

your voice emerging on

smokeless wings above

Everything Else?)

you don't know that

your voice is the only

thing i can hear.

my eardrums, they decipher

vibrations echoed from

your throat,


(but i am moving forward:

at least i'm

no longer wedged in between


this is the dry humor of

summer crackling into fall;

in '06, there are no backward glances

to sticky humid days,

i guess the seasons only get



i hatethat i can make out

my face in the glass.

this is me : angry with the night that

i can't see.

this is you : observing the way rain slides

on asphalt, slick.

(but you're looking through another

dirty windowpane)

this is us : trying hard not to confuse

The Way It Is with

The Way It Could Have Been.