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.