Seeing you feels like a dream now when I think about it,
One where I am moving through a familiar place and
see a familiar person but can’t put
two and two together. Where I have something
important to say but keep opening my mouth and
nothing comes out.
You’re my waiter, I’m fifteen again.
I saw you every day.
Now you’re taking care of your mother in some shitty duplex and
taking my order for a Jim Beam and Sprite.
Somehow I find things to say.
You keep coming over like you expect something from me
and I think you always did.
You wanted me to be better than I was but here I am.
My skirt is too short to be sitting on this barstool and I’m drunk at one p.m.
At least it’s Sunday.
At least I get to leave this Red Robin and go home and be twenty-five, not
fifteen, not thrashing.