E Pluribus Unum

There is nobody like you, and

I see you everywhere:

Cast as cleverly as a Midsummer Night’s

Dream, in the words of another person,

in my spells of restlessness between

waking and sleep, on my phone 

(a picture of your face, your hands,

of you). As I walk from Spanish class,

words still clinging to my mind like

the beginning of conversations,

unending, circular paths, 

I spy someone who looks like you,

and I pretend not to watch him, stall

my inhalation, I might not hear

a word.

I pretend I don’t use my rearview mirror

to see if he deigns to glance back,

even for a moment,

some rom-com fantasy neither here,

nor you.

My friends tell me that I need to move on,

that I need to forget you.

I mention your name, and am immediately

met with frustration at how I just

keep you in my mind,

like a silk ball-gown that is too small,

in a closet that is bare.

I tried hard to love someone else,

anyone else, 

but this implacible heart of mine laments.

She keeps thinking about the hours

of conversation, heavy and light,

war and sexuality, death and

the art of living, philosophy and

friendship.

And she contemplates the one person 

in the world

who read me so well, he got me a book

of Broken Guitars,

and then explicated them with me.

That is my favorite gift of all time.

Had I told you that?

I pray for you still: over your family. 

I loved each person you told me about.

They won’t know me, but I love them.

I hope your friends are taking care of you,

playing League of Legends, getting

into trouble, mostly making you smile.

I wish you happiness.

… And I confess,

the Bluebird poem was written about you.

I worshipped you, a Greek God, 

and I couldn’t help myself.

I spent a year not writing

poems to include you,

and I hid the ones I had written

about you, from you.

I was so embarrassed when you found it.

I told you that it wasn’t about you,

but you knew.

You always knew, somehow.

I don’t love anyone else.

Just you.

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