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Written by Lisa J. Kennedy
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Wednesday, 07 May 2008 |
I remember my inner reaction—shock—
but whatever did I say to you?
The whole conversation is now
blotted from memory, gone,
all but the image of me at nineteen,
eyes downcast, intent
on capturing that last bit
of cookie dough swimming
in vanilla yogurt at the bottom
of a paper cup. And you,
seated across the sticky,
wobbly table, telling me
that you loved me.
Did I joke, play it off,
change the subject, say
anything? Did you hint
at starting over, did I
refuse to take the hint?
Was I still too hurt, outraged,
or by then, indifferent?
I’d faked being OK without
you for so long that
now I was? I’d held my
chin up and laughed when
my best friend gave her scathing
reviews of you for my benefit—
you’d gained weight, you
disgusted your college roommates,
you lay around sweating
too much on vinyl furniture.
I’d gone along with the joke—
all in an attempt to get over you—
and then—I was? Or was this
declaration of love just too big
for an immature mind—I couldn’t
grasp it, so I skipped over it,
not ready, pushing away, scared--
as scared as you’d
claimed to be.
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Last Updated ( Wednesday, 07 May 2008 )
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