caterpillar jelly

and us in the living room when everyone’s gone to bed,

I still remember the parties on Race Street,

where you told me loved me, where I found out you’d left me.

and you couldn’t know it, but I think I’m stuck here,

standing in front of this old rundown building, but nobody lives there anymore.

I stare inside the big glass front door, and I remember all the times I’ve done this before,

watching the staircase for your nonslip sneakers, the black satin vest,

and the liquor on your breath.

you still appear to me in your bartender’s uniform,

you turn the corner and you’re never any older, and god do I miss it,

how you’d let me in.

I'd follow you up to that 80’s apartment, the door didn’t lock and you slept on the floor.

we’d play foxes in the kitchen, but I never won.

you ran circles around me, you made me undone.

you’ve cut your hair now, and I heard you’re sober.

you moved to Newark, like you told me you would,

and I grew the bleach out and I lived through October

and I read all the books that you bought me.

now we’re different people, we’re something like strangers,

but you still have my tattoo on your arm,

I made the appointment to remove mine but I didn’t go.

there’s a woman I met at the Satire Lounge

one night when I was waiting for you to get off,

we drank sake together, she went home in a taxi

at 12:35 and I sat on the curb and watched Colfax go by,

until you came outside

and walked me all the way home.

she’s 65, and I still have her number,

sometimes I call her, and she’s always drunk,

she told me she’s single now and that she left her husband

because she caught him cheating with a girl from the Rotary Club.

I saw a psychic in Lakewood today,

and I lied and I told her that nothing had changed,

like Sarah never called me, well meaning and terrified,

and then she pulled my cards and told me anyway.

sometimes I pretend

that we’ll meet again,

and I won’t remember you and you’ll have to remind me,

and I try to picture the words that you’d say,

how your mouth would look as you explained

that you defended my honor the night that you left,

and you hoped that you’d never see her again.

It wouldn’t sound right, so I’d say I’m sorry,

and it would feel so strange, and the whole way home I’d worry,

and wonder why you were so charming,