I realized something really absurd today.
We’re Facebook friends.
I mean, I probably added you in like 2011 and neither of us ever actually post anything, but we’re Facebook friends.
I went on today to see the pictures of my cousin’s seventh birthday party because my mom told me to, and there you were.
I imagined seeing you for the first time would be a little more melodramatic.
I almost didn’t write a poem about it, because it’s embarrassing.
Like, really? We’re Facebook friends?
I think you’re on vacation or something. I don’t know. I didn’t recognize any of the other people in the picture.
I barely recognized you. You’re not as cute now. I don’t even think I’m biased. I don’t know what you did to your hair, but it was a mistake.
My dad walked up behind me while I was looking at your profile and I clicked over to another window.
“Who was that?” he asked.
The boy who shattered me. He loved me. I lost him. I didn’t try to find him again. The three a.m. phone call. The tears. The scars. The one all the poems are about. The one who means nothing, and the one who meant absolutely everything.
“Oh, no one,” I said absently. “We’re just Facebook friends.”
I didn’t even bother. I posted that shit to Facebook.
I have…weird people…on my facebook. Things like, if they see you liking an image of a shirtless man in a kilt they feel the need to comment on it like “What about your husband?” and I’m just like “I’m sure he appreciates shirtless men in kilts too”