Losing Sleep

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.

 

 

 

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