One time out of ten,
your mom would call,
asking when you were coming home.
Two times out of ten,
we’d sit in my room – door shut –
as others, liquor-tongue-tipped teenagers,
crowded the hallway.
Five times out of ten,
you’d slip into a wall crevice
and call your mother back.
Seven times out of ten,
I studied your sentimentality
as you handed me handwritten
compliments on notecards.
Three times out of ten,
he would call you,
asking when you were coming home.
Four times out of ten,
you hugged me in the rain.
Six times out of ten,
we blocked our communication
with notebooks and thick calculators.
Eight times out of ten,
you bought me gifts
to redeem your poorly-wrapped
insecurities you’d slip underneath
the table like crinkled bills.
Nine times out of ten,
you wasted an extra hour;
you never wanted to go home.
Ten times out of ten,
I was too scared
to ask you to leave.