by Moose Song
I cannot remember what you actually smelled like.
Only that the sickly sweet smell of cannabis
clung tight to your clothes, afraid to let go
and the pocket of air you carried in your sweater
that found its way into me when you undressed.
I don’t quite remember what you looked like.
Only Elizabethtown cross country t-shirts,
skinny jeans that somehow sagged;
the long face, the heavy steps,
the poor posture as if straining
against Jovian gravity.
I hardly remember what you sounded like.
Only the harsh rumble of your voice creating
the cursive of your mumbles, every word
bleeding into the next. I forget
the way we cursed at each other,
Well shit, fuck you dickhead.
every four letter word except
the one we were looking for.