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.
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