Madeline

I was in love

with Madeline.

I think I was.

It is hard sifting through

things like these when you're

deep in the pool of the

immortality of youth.

I called her once when dawn

was emotions and dirty.

We had this over-the-phone

ritual a lot—

talking about nothing and

everything, listening until

the words were replaced

by the even cadence of

slumber.

But this time she was laughing—

a laugh that wasn't laughter.

She said poets weren't special,

they only wrapped their demons

in glitter and clever words.

I felt old and clay

and bludgeoned.

I asked if she was

going to cry.

She said, no,

that wasn't her style.