by Michael Passafiume

We were in your red van on our
way upstate to another Miracle Legion
show because they were the fucking
coolest band & only you & I
knew that & you
were trying to tell me something.

We were having a picnic at Beethoven Park
& god, I was wearing those stupid
striped shorts & even without
the shorts I knew your friends were
just pretending to like me & you
were trying to tell me something.

We were in your apartment smoking
cigarettes & talking
about the future as if we had some
control over it & I think Madonna
was on the stereo & I was so over her
but still deep in my U2 phase & you
were trying to tell me something.

We were speedwalking through the Fine Arts
building & ran into each other, like,
literally ran into each other,
& it had been a couple of years but you looked
the same as we hugged awkwardly
but it was nice & you invited me over
for dinner & I said That sounds great,
then promptly forgot & fuck, when you called
the following evening a cluster of disappointment,
like English ivy, rose up through the receiver’s
small holes to cover my mouth & there
was no fixing things & you
were trying to tell me something.

Now, it’s decades later & every few years
you message me through Facebook
& give me snippets of your life,
say, It’d be nice to get together,
say, Tell me stories,
& when I do it always feels like
too much, too many stories
& then you never write back
& now I’m wondering,
Is that what you wanted to tell me?