It’s so terrible you’re alive. Reckless
and violent against
my present. Nights in Columbia
—you were so angry then—
we’d steal bottles just to smash them,
fuck from where we threw them,
let their crashes yell up to rooftops
away from what’s obvious:
that you’re spoiled and I’m troubled,
but I’m still troubled when I see
your photo today, and I falter when I picture
you hoisting your hair up with both hands,
walking past the storefront mirrors
downtown. It confounds me you exist,
still breathing in Missouri,
still talking to the same people
I barely remember leaving.
I stayed over so often,
but I’d blind myself now to see
you dabbing yourself with lavender
every night before you sleep. Your palms,
your ankles, and cheeks—you did it
once for me too—but people
shouldn’t be so pretty always,
and I struggle still to fathom
how anyone
ever does that
in the first place.
YOUR PHONE
On a level: I know people
exist, but damn if I don’t feel so alone
out here, parting schools
of bowed heads in the mall,
their faces glowing
under invisible shawls.
I want to say
how haunting you are. How gorgeous
the sun is as it drips on us
already in August. How little hours
we have between us before
you become that thing you insist
on staring at, when we
could kiss in grass instead.
Andrew Squitiro’s poetry has appeared in [PANK], DIAGRAM, and The Moth, among others. His essays and reviews can be found at The Volta, and Good Men Project. He teaches undergraduates in coastal Virginia, and hopes to move southward as soon as possible.