Part 1
He is not real
I do not know where he comes from
Or who he is
But I do know
That he is the recipient
Of all the love letters I wrote
To nobody in particular
But I imagine
Looking at him
Is like writing your first poem
Is like learning to ride a bike
Like eating dinner
Or getting ten hours of sleep
Or doing your science homework
Ordinary
Mundane
Bland
But the boy
The crooked one
Felt anything but bland
He felt like my Indian grandfathers spice drawer
He was spice
And flaky
And lonely
And broken
I think
Part 2
All we were
Was past tense
And bad poems
And lost midnights
I think
Part 3
I remember his piccolo breath
Where it got so bad
All we did was fight
I think
Part 4
I wrote over and over
We were
We were
We were
We used to be
We aren't
We never were
But the thing
I am so sure about
Is that whatever we had
Is long broken now
And that
Is all that really
Matters.
