Old Boys
       

I would've never believed that I'd forget you:
the sound of your laugh, the size of your hands,
that one day I'd have to rub my forehead
like a genie's lamp to pull out your last name.

I would have slit my tender paten to pulp
to shake bloody and swear that one day
we would share a last name, or at least
a flamboyantly oversized prom picture.

But now, I could form a terrible band
with all the boys I thought would pant
their presence forever on my heart, but
instead evaporated almost completely,

leaving only the tease of our nicknames,
the soft ghost of their favorite tee-shirt,
and the dusty ordinary ellipse of what
could have been.

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Copyright © 2011 Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz All rights reserved
from Oh Terrible Youth
Write Bloody Publishing
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission