The Ides of March

[sw33tch3rrypi3]

All elbows.
I’d forgotten that you were all elbows, and knees.
And long, coltish lines shaped like young boy.

I watched from the window
or sometimes
from the steps
in the strange world
I only half belonged to.
(You only half belonged, too.)

I liked the way you
pushed your hair back;
dark curtains that sparked
fire in the sun.
I liked your roller blades.
So did you,
even though
your knees
were always covered in plasters.

You went away,
and then I did.
I did not know
that it was for the last time.

Your face is not his face.
Sometimes I see him,
like a blurred reflection on water
that I cannot touch
without making him go.

I wonder if
I am the only one
who knows
that he is inside of you.

I wonder if
I am the only one
who believes
that he is inside of you.