Subtle as a Brick

I remember the first time you called me.
I thought it had been a mistake
          that lasted an hour.

I remember thinking that the next three times, too.

I remember when you told me we were friends,
          a peace I didn’t know I was without,
          settled into place.

I remember my phone staying glued to my hands,
          our ongoing conversation lasting years.
Talking to you was the only time I felt real.

I don’t remember how to trust, but
          I remember how it feels.

I remember the moment I knew we were ending.

I don’t remember the build-up or the conversation.
I don’t remember the aftermath.
I don’t remember how I knew,
          but I did.

Sitting on the lawn of Aaron’s amphitheater,
a pit opened up and swallowed me whole,
          body and soul.

I remember living in the dark for an age.
I remember the Christmas lights in my hospital room,
convincing me I could be wrong.
          You were just busy.
                    You didn’t know I almost died.
                              A month is always shortest during Christmas time.

I remember singing in the quad
          songs of jellyfish and spines,
          of drunk driving and pulling triggers,
          of getting what you deserve.
I remember chanting the lyrics like a prayer.

I remember the guilt that ate at me for hating you,
          the anger I felt that it wasn’t true.

I remember there was a before you.
I know there is an after, too.

I just wish there wasn’t.