Who else would remember— their first night coffee with you, the diner with the flickering
fluorescent tubes, and the lone waitress who inundated you
with questions after she overheard our conversation about the
latest thing you wrote, and didn’t let you leave until you recited
one of your poems for her, and I was jealous of her, sometimes
I want to forget you so that I can read all your poems for the first
time, but more importantly experience you in all your hues again.
It’s not that things have gotten stale, each day I still uncover something
new about you, but rather to experience the moment of falling in love
with you for the first time again. I still think about that waitress a lot,
and wonder if she finally stumbled across your work online, and if
I would have to fight her to be your number one fan. I loved you first.
but me?
