1.63 hours late to…
our casual meet up.
It was downtown, in the rainy
part of the cement and chrome
city and the rain it fell like
supposed to talk, gently, firmly
at this coffee shop. And I expected
your words to sound and taste bitter
like Sumatran espresso. I lit
up a cigarette outside as I waited and some
blonde power moms got angry at me and
I was all like “why aren’t you in the suburbs
right now this is the really cool part of the city,
the authentic side, yknow, with all the Asian fusion
restaurants owned by white guys and all the shitty
I flipped my undercut. Whish. Swoosh.
And I waited. And waited.
I lit up another cigarette.
Then I saw you. You were dainty.
You were gorgeous, pale, unblemished,
white, and wearing a sundress.
Your American Apparel bangs twirled in the
acidic city breeze. It’s hard to believe
you were no longer the girl who
used to be impressed by my expansive
taste in basic normie blog music.
“How are you doing?”
You didn’t actually care. Your concern,
silken words over a dagger of bitter pain,
were feigned with careless diction.
“I’m good. I work at Elite Daily now,”
I say very calculatedly. Our meet up
is a battle of memory and former
“That’s good,” you say, you selfish liar who is
also not as cool as me.
I didn’t come here to exchange pleasantries.
I’m a man, but I’m breakable. Fragility
underneath warm blood. You never
could respect my bounds or my slightly
above average understanding of Ulysses.
Without a word, only cutting silence,
I walked away. I had to.
I needed to.