I watch fat girls in the too-small diner booth
raise cigarettes to their lips like synchronized swimmers.
They wait to be loved by someone.anyone.

I wait for a heart attack.

Your face appears in a curl of smoke I pretend not to see
as Annual November Rituals drain my pen and empathy.

I will not think about you today.

No. I will leave a rose on your doorstep and forget.
Last year's promises enforce this and next year-

Next year I won't even write you.

You've been dead far too long to deserve my mourning
song and I forgot the words.
A lost cause for a lost boy.

Instead I will drink myself to apathy.
Toast the sky and new love reciprocated,
with a smile on my lips all the while.


I've more important things to think about than
years I can't count on one hand.



And next year-

Next year I won't even write you.

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