those tuesday cigarettes that dangled from your mouth
as we sat in the back of our old sedan
your arm tentatively around my shoulder
while the wind whips past our faces
&the only words on your chapped lips:
“I love you, I love you, I love you”
and I used to wonder if you meant the things you said

every thursday you used to sit on the broken swing my
father made for you in your backyard
with strong nylon strings and a smooth wooden plank
so you always swung in the opposite direction
of the hot, stifling summer breeze
(because you only sat on it during the summer)
as the heat bore down all around us

there’s still an aura of childhood nostalgia
when I walk by your empty house
imagining the ornate picture of me&you still perched on your desk
and the out-dated swing that still hung on the thickest branch
of the old oak tree in your backyard--
sometimes I find myself sitting on your swing
imagining your voice and your laughter
while black november tears flow down my cheeks

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