after we have stopped talking


and taken deep-rooted, mud-laced steps down
the road less traveled by
and after I have changed my number from the seven
digits  you memorized–the ones that were printed
on that post-it note in your jean
pocket after I scrawled them down in purple pen
and passed it back to you across the counter
after our friends stop saying “Well have you heard
what so-and-so is up to?”
after my Facebook is banned from your eyes
and you hide your words behind a ribbon of
programming secrecy
after the pictures are permanently wiped from
the photo album of 2012 and the bubble messages
are taken to the dark side of my iphone’s memory
after the puppy dog with bad stitching that you
got me on my birthday loses its stuffing
and I throw it out because I need more space
for yarn and coffee cups
after I stop worrying about running into you
at the mall because let’s face it
with my new haircut and your new wardrobe
we would  brush by each other
without a hint of recognition anyway
after I stop taking tissues with me on rainy days
when sad country songs are playing to the windshield wipers
after the words you spoke to my heart are like
white-washed rhymes in a mythology that
you created with your own two hands
after all this has passed like the fading
of a final piano sigh
before the clapping, rising, velvet curtain falls
i wonder if you find yourself stranded in a foreign land
trapped beneath the rusty shingles of a fallen house
muzzled in an oxygen mask onboard a blazing plane
crouched in a corner during this-is-not-a-drill
netted to machines that keep your bones alive
wrapped in a blanket trying to fan the candle of your
hope into a flame to last for one more aching night
after we have long stopped talking, thinking,
appearing in eachother’s awkward work dreams
and falling nightmares
would you still remember those seven numbers
and call to say goodbye?

and if you did, would I answer?



(picture from )


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