Wednesday

We’ll go out to our usual
place – we’ll get drunk and
dance and you’ll kiss me like
you never said it was over.
Leaving, you’ll take my
hand as we slide our shoes
across the icy parking
lot, complaining because
the nights are cold now and
my car has no heat.
We’ll show up at
our diner (where they were
probably expecting us
anyway) – you’ll
get your usual and I’ll
read the menu like I’ve
never seen it before and
sandwiched between yellow
light and orange vinyl we’ll
gossip about all the things that
have happened in the six hours since
we last really talked.
After we’re sick on
chicken fingers and coffee I’ll
take you home. You’ll invite
me in again and we’ll sit on
wicker barstools in your basement like
we always did before,
Motley Crüe so loud we have to
yell to hear each other.
After a few more beers and a
few more cigarettes you’ll
say you need to go bed and
you’ll ask me what I want
to do but to save myself I
have to say I’m going home
and you’ll walk me through
the kitchen to the front door,
sliding your arms around me
as I clutch handfuls of your shirt
and we hang onto each other like
we can’t let go but
I thought

we already did.