The Joke

The joke was that I was seventeen

In a pass-through town

With nothing to do except repeat;

The same lovers and the same laughs.

The joke was that it was senior year

And I never knew that my skin could ignite from

The touch of your dancing fingers

On my paper skin like magic.

Months passed by like cars on the highway;

Shooting stars could not slow us down.

In January you asked me to be yours always

But ‘always’ was just a filler to a void.

Between secret loathing and bland kisses

Your sweet mint turned to stale bubblegum,

Your fingers derailed from my final destination

To hers.

Unapologetically, apologetically loving you,

The sheets formed mountains over time

Your hand no longer reached for mine

But mine never stopped yearning for yours.

Now I weep waterproof tears

And hand out kisses like they’re trophies;

A medal to each and every person

Whose name sounds less and less like yours.

3 years later and your breath is still hot on my neck

Your correspondence is faint, then flatlined.

The joke was that I was 17 counting on always.

The joke was that I still taste the sweet mint.