I don't write poems about you
they're always about him.
To write you poetry is to admit
that everything was real,
that we were real.
It hurts to admit that there was an Us.
Tentative first kisses, days before
he and I became
HeandI
that turned into hours
spent in your room.
We would emerge,
flushed and tired,
our lips pink and sore.
He and I never did the things that
you and I did.
But I wish it had been
the other way.
I wish for a lot of things with him,
and I wish I'd never met you.
