You could have been beautiful
with your sharp cheek bones
that could cut glass
and tear the smile off of my lips,
those crystalline eyes
that reflected all the grace of the world
but none of your own,
your cherub curls that had a life of its own,
and your masculine charm.
We had two and a half tabs of ecstasy,
three long drives to nowhere,
eight two-hour phone calls,
two songs that we stole from the airwaves
and made our own,
my own secret identity
complete with a Chinese family name,
nine bottles of beer,
two coincidences where fate showed her hand,
a hungry embrace, sweet kisses,
and a blue moon.
That fucking blue moon was just for us.
You gave it all away.
Two weeks could have been forever
and yet you folded it in your hands
and with a simple “good bye”
you put it in the trash and left for a party
and I never saw you again.
That must have been some party.
That was the last time you were beautiful.
Since then, I could have earned a Masters degree,
learned a new language, Mandarin even,
fallen in and out of love twice,
or learn how to make flowers bloom.
You could have been beautiful.
And no one is really ever ugly —
they are only beautiful or forgotten.
There are no in-betweens here,
in this horrid state
of remembrance and loss.