1991

I waited 20 years to see her again.

She looked much the same, but

I could spot 20 years on her countenance,

in the way she moved,

carefully.

We’re not 18 and made out of rubber anymore,

she said.

I almost didn’t recognize you

with your clothes on, I said.

Oh, now that’s funny, she said, but

she didn’t laugh.

We sat on opposite sides

of a small, square table like

an interview,

like she was a job I wanted.

So why did you want to see me?

To make amends, I guess.

To apologize for

being who I was.

I let you down.

Then I’d lift you up.

Then I’d walk away and

come screaming back.

I’m sorry for that,

for all of that.

I was an asshole.

We were young, she said.

Lust and love and drugs and

don’t forget,

it was kind of epic sometimes.

I remember the lake, the beach,

the band, the school.

You were like James Dean to me,

if James Dean was an asshole and

wrote nice poems.

She looked at her phone.

I’ve got to go.

Okay, I said.

We embraced and yes

(wow),

her hair still smelled like 1991.

Copyright Tim D.

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3 thoughts on “1991

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