I remember how often I paid visits
to – you know – that special place
we used to talk on. I've forgotten its name,
but I'm sure it started with an 'F'.
When the time was right, we'd wear
our make-believe costumes:
hooded robe, plaster mask; gold letterman
with sleeves rolled up to the elbows.
By day, we were dreamers. By night,
detectives. Drunken college jocks.
Soldiers who fought for everything and
nothing.
Remember?
Our ritual became an inward contest
to see who'd move on first.
Imagine my face that day
when I found out you won.
