It's pathetic the way
I treasure up my memories of you:
little throwaway instants of conversation
you tossed me out of pity.
I'm the girl you sat next to in high school,
the one whom you gave a handful of candy hearts
(crumbs for a street pigeon).
I'm the girl you nearly drove out of her mind
with your World War obsession, your coffee addiction,
your warm hands and your off-key songs,
your mahogany eyes.
Even thinking about you
gives me heartburn and stomach aches.
I'm a mess.