Sometimes I wish certain memories
could be transferred from my mind
to my laptop. I’d label the folders
with names, dates and smells:
Jackie, Starbucks, cigarettes.
The trash application burrows
the bottom of my screen, lid
unhinged. I’ll click, drag and drop.
I’ve trashed completed essays
and assignments; they never cross my mind.
I’ve moved on from you, but I still find you
lapping, laying back, sunbathing in his iris.
Anytime he says “I love you,” there’s a glow in his eye;
I wonder if it’s you.
Too bad friendships can’t be kept on memory sticks.
I’ll toss you in a drawer atop a mattress of pencils and pens.
I can’t wait for my memory to fill to the brim.
I’d love to watch you pour out of me.
I’d crack, carve my cranium like a pumpkin,
remove you like the candle, just to feel you burn in my hands.
I wish you taught me how to forget; how to:
let the phone ring,
I was always waist-high in your trash bin.
How awful for you to have trash that never left the curb,
that broke off the lid and teetered the can until –