Author: Jason Wright

I remember you,
the you before now,
the you from back then.

You were older than me
but you were young when I was,
glistening nakedly
as you ran in for water
after yearly mile run.

I didn’t know you well,
though we smiled for one another;
we drank and frequented
the same bars…
you, weaving in and out
of my existence…
you wrote letters from prison
to my dearest of friends,
and I thought perhaps you had died.

I drove you home once;
but I doubt you’d remember it;
you were drunk and clinging
to that night’s latest trick.

I was jealous of him
as I made sure you both arrived at your home safely,
as I ensured your survival and my own cuckoldry…
even as you stumbled from my car
at gas station to vomit on the sidewalk
and on my left rear tire.

You told me you were sorry
and you sounded miserable…
and that night’s lover looked embarrassed
if no less interested in sharing your bed,
not that I blamed him…
you were beautiful in your blindness
and completely unsuspecting.

You were already broken then,
but the glinting light
from those shards of self
shone like diamonds
in a world filled with pebbles.

That same night,
I drove home alone
to my little village farm house,
where I sprayed the vomit off my car
with a garden hose
in the far too bright, sunlit morning.

I never saw you again.

Written by Jason Wright
April 13, 2019

For Dale Lipke