The problem is this: I wanted you
in the middle of rush hour on a
busy Friday night. I wanted you
in a Hawaiian shirt with navy buttons
which I undid with tantalizingly
slow and clumsy fingers in August.
I wanted that silver chain dangling
above me, in my face, with that
alluring glint in the night. Your
shadowy form poised gracefully
over me; your lips between my
shoulder blades, breathing in the
scent of every party we ever waited
out that summer till the last hour,
always the last two remaining. I
wanted my wild hair sticking to
your rosy flesh. My shaky breath
on your neck. To be your good girl;
to be good enough. I wanted you
in that T shirt that I wore home
and couldn’t bear to part with
because it smelled like everything
I’ve ever fantasized about. I wanted
you in that suit with the sleeves
rolled up on Halloween night.
That smirk. But you only wanted
me in my glittering Devil costume
or that purple plaid miniskirt, and
only for the gooseflesh beneath
the fabric. That’s the difference
between you and me, and the ways
that we want each other: I wanted
you however you came and I
wanted every piece of you.
This is what I was rambling
about in a drunken haze at
the foot of your bed. You
only ever wanted me at my
prettiest and loneliest, on your
own terms, and bent over your
desk, or with my face in the
pillow, or my legs over your
sturdy shoulders. What I
mean by that is that we can’t
do this anymore because the
last time I kissed you in your
car in November, I meant it.

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