at 17 i was not allowed to date you.
my mother a virgin on her wedding night
my father refused to kiss her
dance with her
years of bitter hatred to follow.
you and i remained friends
sat at lunch in high school together
i let me knee flop over
it would touch your thigh
sometimes you dared to call me
my father hung up the phone
when i heard a boy’s voice
i smiled as i walked to my bedroom
knowing it was you.
the day i picked window glass off your face
we left school that day
i was supposed to sneak away with you
following behind you in another car
the glass cut your beautiful freckled face
therapy in all forms never let us get
to know each other again
30 years later i see you.
you don’t know me.
you don’t remember me.
your beautiful freckled face
a scar down your right cheek
you text with in zoom on your phone
i can see all the letters forming words
you are alone with your bicycle
leaning against the cafe table
me with my gorgeous husband
i cannot help but stare at you
as i drive away to my life
you never leaving our hometown.