The look on her face when I called you by your first name was terrifying. (This is where you’d tell me I need more concrete images.) Since then I’ve avoided your first name, even in that mediocre George Clooney movie.
Your band was playing tonight and I thought about going. Instead I opened a bottle of wine and fell in love with that texture. I’m afraid to roll off the couch now.
Stop telling me my poems are great. That I could be published. Maybe you’re just trying to get my hopes up for after graduation.