she points out that
you can see the chrysanthemums from where we sit on the balcony
and bittersweetly i lean over the edge to find
the deep green bush
littered with flowers the size of my hand
with tissue paper petals,
blooming first green, then baby blue
and she’s right;
i can’t remember if that’s a name i used to call you
or one your friends made up
or maybe just one that makes me think of you,
but i think of you all the same.
i drive by your college on my way to work
and sometimes i wonder
if you’ll order a coffee one day,
catching me by surprise in the drive-thru window,
neither of knowing how to say what we want to say
and that somehow being enough.
that something being better than nothing.
sometimes i try to imagine your life now,
but for all that i’ve changed in two years
i can’t imagine
you’re much the same at all.
i think you wouldn’t recognize me now
if you saw me.
i hope you’re different like that, too;
i hope you’re better.
sometimes i hope you forgave me,
but how could you when
i never said sorry?
if i never get the chance to,
if you’re never in the mood for a hot chai latte
and catching me by surprise at the drive-thru window,
if distance still hurts less than getting closure, then-
you look like you’re doing well- oh, me? yeah,
i’m so good, actually,
thanks for asking,
god it’s been awhile, hasn’t it?
yeah, i mean,
shit, i’m sorry about everything-
right yeah, no yeah, totally.
alright well here’s that chai-
yeah, thank you,
no, of course,
and you, too,
and, uh, take care, okay?