Poetry

Want

It doesn’t matter that I remember

the shape of your big toes

still, I want it to count for something.

I want it to mean that

my love mattered and maybe

still lives a little

inside of you.

I wonder if I come to you

while you’re driving the streets

of St. Paul or if those memories

were only mine to carry.

I was not the girl with dreadlocks,

the girl with the tattoo matching 

the girl who gave you the leather bracelet

but I am the girl who made you lose it.

We climbed under the Franklin Avenue bridge

and the whole time

I wanted to crawl inside you

or jump off.

There was nothing else for me,

but you.

You always had it all.

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