You weren’t the first person I talked to through plexiglass,
diner-menu-greasy phone to ear, a reflection of flat light
above the scar on your eyebrow.

You tripped and hit the counter on your way down, too high
to notice pain and never got the stitches. I put my Hello Kitty
Band-Aid on it instead, no butterfly bandage, but pink and
filled with a sticker kind of hope, concern the color of bubblegum.

You might not remember coming home that night,
those nights when I fished loose quarters from turned out pockets
to put something on your wrist and feel its steady, carbonated flow.

Anyways, you weren’t the first. Anyways, I knew
what you looked like in overhead light:
eyes carved out, nail prints in soap.

Anyways, I wish I weren’t the only one talking.
I wish we were at a diner instead and I could remember
your favorite syrup, but I worked really hard to find the coins
beneath the couch cushions for you.

You can’t look at me because I have her eyes,
the weight behind them. All that dammed up water,
chemicals.

It’s not your fault.

Some of it is.

I wake up sweating sometimes; I think you might choke in your sleep.
In my head, I roll you over onto your side. I know the lullabies.

I taught them to myself.  

The lights are buzzing. Singing louder than your breaths

and you still can’t look at me.  

Time is up.

It’s always up.

You won’t look at me, but my name stays on the list.

That can mean something.

I’ll save bubblegum wrappers and
keep an eye out for pennies.

It used to make you smile.

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