I don’t think about you; I hope you don’t think about me.
I’m not worth thinking about—I can’t understand poetry
Unless I know what the poet looks like, and the song
Makes the poet dance. Even then I tend to get it wrong.
The strings are languid. The drums are fast.
Can you admit love will never last?
I don’t think about you. I hope you don’t think about me.
You protest—with words like “infinity.”
You’re my ex: it’s February, and there you are, a Christmas tree.
Things end. That’s how my life works. That’s how I fight my war.
Things must end. I end them. Things have ended for me before.
“But what about memory,” you ask, and look at me in tears.
But even then I wasn’t moved. And now it’s been years.