I used to wake up
wishing I was in your shoes:
wishing I had the car,
the Saturday night sex,
the Monday morning stories,
The parties, and the drinking, and the fun;
they passed me by, but not you.
Hi, you probably don’t remember me,
but I remember you.
You might have seen me in the library,
if that jogs your memory?
Not that you were ever in the library,
of course. I don’t know why I spent so long
in there. I didn’t even get the grades,
(but then again, neither did you)
at least not the first time round.
I don’t even know if you got a place or stayed on,
and is it really that long since prom and the yearbook signing?
Is it really that long since the leavers assembly?
Is it really that long? It can’t be, can it?
And I think I went to one party once.
Maybe, I don’t know, when you spend
so long in jealous daydream
you forget what really happens, you know?
you forget the little mumbled insults,
the mottled laughter, the botched drawings,
the graffiti on the lockers.
Not that all of that matters now. We’ve aged as
time goes on by, (on crutches) and even as the seasons change
your shoes, your car, your friends, your job,
remain the same. (But the sex is less often.)
And maybe you now have a few more
Monday morning stories to tell.
Maybe we could swap them sometime.
You see I don’t bear grudges, for hate is a fire
that’ll turn your insides into ash,
and I just don’t need it. And neither do you.
And no, I don’t take sugar.