Hadicurari

Do you remember that song I played in the car
on our drive back from our last dinner together?

In that fancy restaurant on the water
where we had red wine
and I told you I'd been there before?

You probably don't.

It was on that same night
you asked me if I loved you,
and I kept my composure and said no,

while trying to keep my legs
from fidgeting under the table.

My visceral reaction, five minutes later,
was to feign offence,

because I had shared with you
how I'd been in love all that time
with somebody else.

That had been true.
I had been.

Just before I was enthralled by you.

Do you remember now?

Do you remember how I lied that night?

Do you recall the song now?

No?

Well, I do.

I remember for both of us.

Now, in the passenger seat
of some guy's Cadillac,
I told him to put it on.

He reached for my hand
and I closed my eyes,
wanting to imagine you there.

Alas, my imagination is not as vast.

Reality has me by the neck.

As one, then two tears
streamed down my face,
splashing onto my ironed linen pants,

sobbing, I muttered the words
to that song.

That song you don't remember.

To me, it will always be our song.

Then, tired of keeping my composure
in situations I find incredibly suffocating,
I opted for the opposite
of what I'd usually do.

I sobbed.

Ugly face and all.

My poor pants were soaked
by the second chorus.

He put his hand on my shoulder
and rubbed it gently.

He knew it wasn't about him,
but he didn't say a word.

I cried all the way home

before I got undressed
and made love to your ghost.