i regret that i didn’t write in your margins
now i’m sitting down in the elevator
crying Sriracha hot chili
pressing delete. delete.
your smile running through me like a stop sign
because all i kept saying was keep straight, keep straight.
you ran into my fruit case, mucked up
the strawberries filled with helium–
this would have been
what the rest of our life would’ve amounted to:
saying i’m sorry like that was good enough,
leaving movies on my doorstep-
your newfound appreciation for the way i’m
“moving the fuck on” as if i’ll ever be satisfied,
as if you’ll ever be more than everything you compensate for.
