Sometimes I Still Need You

Sometimes at night you're in my room. When I'm alone, and no one is online, you lay in my bed and make that face.

It makes me reach out and cup your invisible cheek in my hand, and stroke your skin while I cry and remember what I lost.

Tonight I was walking up the hill, and I swear you were right behind me, coming up from last summer, meeting me from the train tracks after we fought. You were right there.

I lay in my bed and remember the words you used to say. I listen to the Ukrainian closely. I look at red Van's in the store window. I hid your key away.

I take the bus to you. We go to Fatburger. We look for Phoenix. We drive to Portland. We fight. We lay in bed. I slap you. You walk away. I sit on the sidewalk and cry until you don't leave me anymore. I promise you. You promise me. We're okay. We're traveling, listening to NPR, listening to music. I sit with you in the gym. We look for Risk. I'm running after you. I'm yelling at you in the street downtown. We're on the monorail. We're getting Mexican food. We're in our separate hotel rooms. We are sitting on a bench in Kirkland, we are playing checkers with twigs.

I wonder what we will do tomorrow.