On Wednesday night I’m losing sleep over a love I never had.
Over a one night stand in your parent’s basement suite, and an early morning coffee run.
Over two dates, one awkward kiss, and a pair of tickets I paid too much for.
Your elbows rested on the handlebars of a second hand bike,
while you told me you didn’t want anything romantic;
tell that to my fingers, your hand on my calves, my cheeks,
your face on my back.
I drove home under hazy amber lights and green flashing signs tearing up the grey
asphalt like Gatsby’s East Egg.
I park crooked between the lines but I’m too tired to care.
Under the West Van sun you laughed at all my jokes,
“You’re a funny girl”, dimples on your left side, a toothless smile.
You can fit loose change in your laugh,
Quarters and nickels and dimes under a silver tongue.
You told me you didn’t want anything romantic—
I wondered how to make a joke of this.