you said
you couldn’t
stand
porches at midnight,
or how i popped
one foot
on the rail
to dream
about
james dean.
you didn’t know
i’d do anything
to make you stand
for nothing
and what that would
do to your eyes,
starting to wrinkle
starting to question

you said
you couldn’t
continue being
what you
never were.
how can you
stop being
what you
never started,
how can
you name
grazing my hand
at the fireplace,
or counting
garlic, or
old
magazine
cutouts like
our childhood
was always here?

there’s too many
cigarette butts
filling yellowing
mason jars.
jars which
cast short
shadows
on chipping
red paint.
wasted ash in
wasted words
like wasted Lot
and I
always
look back

though

at the sound of
nights;

at stoops with                  daisies
and marigolds;
or
sidewalks
that curve down.

and i
can only
remember
the things
you wouldn’t
stand