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
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,
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,
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
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.