You weren’t right. I knew how to have fun,
You just didn’t inspire me.
That soap we loved was beautiful,
because you didn’t need to eat it in order to taste it.
Maybe I didn’t spend long enough standing behind
you in the bathroom and brushing your hair.
Maybe I didn’t tell you that you were pretty
as often as I should have.
All I know is, because Dickinson was wrong
when she referred to the heart wanting what it wants,
almost every morning now, these last 10 years
after hearing of your death,
there isn’t this intrusion of thought that haunts me
whenever I think of you, where I’m imagining
playing hide and seek with you in a beach house
beside an ocean, because I know this is exactly
the way I wanted you to open me up and find me.
Instead there’s just a feeling of turning some anonymous
corner and coming upon this beautiful girl
I sense loved me once, perhaps in an earlier life,
and this intense sensation of being helpless
to do anything about it, as she fixes her blouse
and looks up at the sky, appearing to only have eyes