Monday, August 22, 2011

The Visitor

I dreamt of you last night,

unexpected guest star in a ream

of strange dreams churning

like froth behind my eyelids,

swiftly cycling what-ifs

grown in the chill hours

of night’s ocean,

with me at the tiller

of an adrift ship

Do you still think of me?

I wordlessly stammer,

suddenly remembering

a recent whim to Google your name,

potential internet salvation

encircled by a burning shame

at being an unchanged sham

Do you still think of me?

I cannot help but repeat

news of your upcoming marriage

swam with purple on a screen,

wedding gift registry

causing a deadening inside of me

shrinking away from what was peeked,

a confirmation of you peaking into

the prime of your life

while I choose to remain enmeshed

in the flimsy dross of strife

Do you still think of me?

The question almost burns,

toss and turn,

I’m watching shadows that aren’t real

and still lie still and yearn

for something that barely lived

a relationship unearned,

left behind with new pimples

and high school histrionics

Do you still think of me?

I mouth in the first

moments of morning

trickling into a borrowed bedroom

bolting upright

out of this subconscious segue

making it’s way unbidden

to my chest beating out

old rhythms in the bloodstreams

you had wrapped around your fingers

wry smile and cocked eyebrow

raised in a self-assurance that made

me feel simultaneously loved and sick,

Do you still think of me?

I think about you

leaving bubonic memories pushing

against the sub-basements of my subconscious

until they made their way through the floorboards

late last night from first kiss to the last fights

to the last thing I said to you

at our high school reunion

as you stood next to your stout marine beau

aglow with being happy

and I could only venomously choke out

“see you next year”

sneer plain as day on my face.

Do you still think of me?

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