To: Whatever Your Name Was (I Think It Rhymed With Get Over Yourself)

Did you think of us as intimates? Do you think yourself as special? Don't you know  my skin is Catholic, letting every body in? No, my mild Molotov, you are not the one who got away. You've not the eyes or touch worth mentioning and idolized in poetry. I'm sorry my sweet minutiae, but yours is not a love requiring sonnets or sorry glances at the moon. 


What you are is good morning on a Monday at work,  a bowl of mints on an office desk, an umbrella for if it rains because it's cloudy (but then it doesn't.) You are a nickel I found in my back pocket when I was 10 cents short. A pencil at arms reach when I'm on the phone and need a pen. You are the first 15 seconds of every video on YouTube, losing a set of keys when somebody else is home, footprints on the beach near a rising tide, a song I heard and kind of like but will never download. 


You are the vague space between laying in bed and falling asleep. You are the 4th, 7th, and 13th  time I had sex. 


Necessary but pointless,  mundanely momentous and irrelevant, you will not be remembered or entirely forgotten.  No song or place or prose will resign me with nostalgia. You are not a love requiring sonnets.


You are just another thing that happened. 

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