"Amor De Lejos", By Kelsey Rakes

You used to blow into my ear while I was
trying to fall asleep.

I’d laugh and pull off both of our shirts, kiss
your chest and ears and eyelids until neither
of us could breathe.  Afterwards you’d sleepily 
call me your little snuggle puppy, curve your
body around mine, and just when you’d close 
your eyes I’d laugh and blow into your ear.

We never used to have any change because
we’d go downtown and feed the parking meters
by hand, like they were curious metal monsters.
You could never resist helplessness, which is
probably why you love me.

I used to make up songs about your socks.
I used to rub your back in front of your parents.
I used to fiddle with your knees while you drove.
I used to cry on the phone to you about my ex.
I used to tell you that you and I would never be
anything more than friends.

(I used to believe it, too.  But you never did.)

You used to wear jeans that were dyed fuschia.
You used to finish off my bowls of melted ice cream.
You used to push me on the swings, higher, higher.
You used to kiss the insides of my weak wrists
and tell me that broken things are beautiful.

I wonder if you ever believed that, either.

But now you’re a lifetime and a calendar away,
and we are learning to live with the “now"s 
instead of the "used to"s.

Now you write me letters every day.  Now you
call me but the reception is always bad.  Now
you tell me youmissme youmissme youmissme.

Now I have pocketfuls of change to spend feeding 
parking meters by myself, and pocketfuls of
minutes to spend learning to live without you.