5/15
I think I could make this better with some editing. But so far, here it is.One.
The number of times I’ve talked to you.
Our palms fit together like the ring around my finger;
I suddenly felt conscious of my thirsty skin
While your hand attempted to read the lines on my hand
As if the cracks told a story of the harsh, worn me
Underneath the half-suns in my eyes of a
Smile I’ve been conditioned to hold.
I don’t even know your last name.
Two.
The number of drinks you spilled on me.
The number of times you apologized and smiled
And jokingly blamed the guy with a drunken slur
And wiped the beer away with a look of satisfaction
Like someone who’s plucked the dust from an old record player
Three.
The number of times our hands brushed.
Your numb hands felt nothing but the
Plastic cold of the red Solo cups
Only you weren’t aware that I was staring at the
Corner where two walls met
And I was wondering how it felt to hold someone’s hand
Like a bandage over a wound
The blood filling each tiny square of fabric
Caressing and sharing the pain.
Four.
The number of minutes the song lasted.
I had never felt quite as powerful as I did then,
As if the bobbing of our heads were
Orchestrating every down beat on the bass.
And every time your head came up you looked at me
And made sure I was in sync with the music, with you.
Five.
As far as you got in scribbling my number.
You took the pen from your pocket and
Etched my name onto your hand and I looked at you
Hoping each stroke of ink would stay there forever.
Six.
The number of days it took for me to forget about you.
This is the number of times that I tried to
Wish away those memories.
The number of times my hand brushed away the air in front of me
Pretending that it was just one night.
That one night when the cracking of the party cups
Under footsteps sounded too loud
And the memories of you clung to me like beer on the floor.
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