[I don't think this one is quite done yet; still percolating]
A passing glance at the calendar
leads to hours spent flipping photos
examining the evidence of your existence
Your birthday--one of the few things I recall--
along with the smell of your cigarettes, how
you slapped my ass that one day, and your
prickly, adolescent chin.
I fell for the softness of your skin,
gentle like the lake water, Diego Luna,
Pacey, my Trip Fontaine, all the boys
of an over-active imagination.
Our time ran out like a rainstorm: quick, fierce
and uncontrollable on my part, lying in wait with no
sun to pass through.
It rains today. The same kind of rain,
thick, crisp like toast, and I crave an Export A,
Jay's hotbox BMW, and the sour smell of your ball cap,
but the cold shoulder of my youth has passed.
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