There are some things, I know,

which I forget about,

like the color of your eyes

or what brand of shoes you wore,

because I never bothered to look

for those things in the first place.

I was too busy worrying about

whether the line between your eyebrows

meant you were angry

or guessing if you laid awake at night

to stare at your white popcorn ceiling and

wonder about love and the

vivid red of poppies that

bloom beside the highway.

Instead of noticing the various

shades within your hair or

the name of the sports team

sprawled across your shirt,

I was too busy wondering

if you were like me.

And I guess that wasn't enough.