Not Smiling

If it proved it
I’d not smile till the next July fifth—
in remembrance of our first kiss,
out there near the boardwalk and boats.
I’d only show my teeth to growl and to eat.

If he’d listen I’d sing that song and I’d whisper
near his ear about staying home and keeping away
from those faraway places
that I once wanted to roam.

Even now as I pack my bags,
I wonder if he’d shrug those shoulders—the ones
I used to hug and think were so strong. The ones
I watched whenever he walked towards me.

I go back, thousands or millions of miles away
(cause what’s the difference),
to those places he’s never graced.
And even with only seeing him a moment
I can’t help but write speeches
as I lie in bed.

Even while I set my alarm
for that six A.M. flight, I think that maybe
if I could say the right words.
I practice.

But as I fall to troubled sleep
I remember how his shoulders looked
as he walked away from me.
I think of that moment when in last embrace,
I wiped tears and mascara on his blue shirt.
Our cheeks almost touched and he said, “I thought it’d make it easier.”