connecting teen poets around the globe
Do you want your socks back?
The ones with the orange toes,
A bit tight on my feet,
That you loaned me once on a day like this.
An hour on the subway, and it was raining
Or just damp, I forget the details
Cool, for late August
My feet were soaked by the time I
Stepped into your bedroom.
My feet were always cold and wet,
When I was with you.
We’d trace the island of manhattan
Impervious to puddles.
My sixteenth birthday took thirty minutes
Before I regained sensation.
We’d stepped through late February ice for hours
And my toes were white and numb
As your incense filled the air
And we talked of dreams and perhapses.
When we fell asleep,
My feet in a pair of your socks
(those were green).
By the time we set out,
On what we never thought would be a last adventure,
With me in your orange socks, green shoes,
There was nothing but damp in the air.
I remember corn muffins
Stories of summer drugs
And friendships betrayed
And lines in the sand we
Could see being drawn, and didn’t know
How to stop.
I remember plans for the best worst year of our lives
Everything we’d do, and with whom.
It was damp, and I talked of questions,
I asked you how we can ever tell if
Something’s real, or just
And now it’s March.
And I never realized I might have loved you.
And I never gave you your socks back.