trade

the last time i saw you
your face was gold
in the apartment building
parking lot porch light.
I could see your stubble
and old scars
from last decade's fight.

they say you can tell a man's story
just by following his scars
if that's so mine's a pretty short one
about skateboard parks and school yards.

but the ones that hide behind my quiet
raincloud curtain eyes
tell a greater tale
of migraine dreams and cigarette lies.

in a box
i still have the valentine you gave me
when i was a little kid.
when you made it
i think you were trying to fight ugliness
with a cigarette in your mouth
and ball point pen in your hand
wiping the ashes off the paper as they land
seeing your ink run black into the valentine
river of red
like blues make up the man.

we both stood outside your door
under the secret-moon sky
shifting our weight
with a hate for hellos and goodbyes.
any car on the road
was parked like a tombstone
in quiet after midnight prose.
i didn't have a lot to say
though i spent every minute
we were apart
hoping to god you would be
okay.