there won't be a house,
picket fences,
or a pool

no stone house
in the italian countryside

no brownstones full of books

in fact,
there won't a future,
not for us,
and that's okay
(is what i tell myself)

at least
there's no shouting,
no hatred,
just
giving up

and that's fine
(is what i tell myself)

yes, i said goodbye
in a poem
six years ago
and now i'll have to say it again
i can do it
(is what i tell myself)

and maybe
one day
when all this is over
we'll be friends
(is what i tell myself)

don't know where to start
don't know when you stopped
caring
liking
wanting
i just know that it's gone

know that i'm
alone
& that you don't mind that

and that's okay
i guess
i'm used to it

i would've appreciated a warning
would've liked to not gotten into it so deeply
but whatever
life goes on
i guess

you couldn't pay me to go back to high school
and trod through those prison-like halls.
but sometimes i ache to go back
to those high school summers,
the ones that you were so often a part of.

yes, i'll admit it.
i do miss
cruising down west shore drive
windows rolled down, summer's air filling the car.
going to the beach after the sun's set,
feeling deliriously dangerous as we sipped captain morgans
and pilfered *****.

i even miss
trailing behind all the skateboarders,
hearing the roll of the wheels on the asphalt,
watching the falls and the triumphs.

i miss chatting with you,
about anything and everything.
beaches and bonfires
and "where's my flopper"

you were there
always smiling,
always willing to let me in on the story,
to share the memories made long before i arrived,
inviting me to tag along.
you were a friend to all,
an enemy to none,
and you never passed judgment on anyone.

and though we hadn't talked
in far too long
i know,
if i had run into you,
you'd smile
say my name, ask how i've been.
that was something i could count on

it's impossible to comprehend,
that somehow
you're gone.

i can say that certainly
this really is
marblehead's greatest loss.

do you remember those nights?
(i'll admit, they're kind of hazy for me)
(they were long ago)
(& maybe i was a little drunk)

twinkle lights
and music on the echo
stolen kisses
and confessed feelings
(on my end)

sometimes tears
sometimes fighting

never knowing,
always wanting

always being a last choice,
disposable,
cheap

i wouldn't ask to do it again
and if i had to,
i'd do it differently

change it all,
except the twinkle lights

when i was young
and at the playground
i liked my feet to be on the ground
didn't really spend much time on the swings
&
when i did go on the swings
i made sure to swing only slightly
never pumped my legs as hard as i could
had no interest in flying

and now:
i'm grown,
and i still prefer my feet on the ground
still don't care for the swings,
or the unpredictability of your swinging moods

(i never know what will set you off)
(i say one thing one day and you laugh, and the next day you yell)
(this is a familiar pattern)
(one that i had hoped to escape)
(why)
(sometimes it feels like a nightmare i can't escape)
(am i not worthy of kindness?)
(am i not worthy of love that is secure?)

sometimes
i catch myself wishing for the sandbox
or just a nice bench
anything that doesn't swing