Kevin Would Really Hate This One

it took a year to get over ourselves

you were first to swallow your pride

(i’m sorry i ignored the first attempts

i’m so sorry for prolonging the silence)

maybe you’re bigger than me

I mean, at 6’4”

on a writer’s room diet

you’re bigger than me.

but maybe you’re bigger than me

or maybe, like i said, you were the one who was wrong

(well, you were.)

it didn’t matter anymore

with time the words had faded

the sting had leveled out

the prerequisites to that apology

held such little weight

it was now water, and you offered the bridge

i was going to walk over it, you know

we had plenty of time.

i was going to meet you in the middle

my indignation was only on principle

i was going to call you when you were back in town

we had time.

we’d have a nice lunch

the table would wobble and your catastrophically large elbows would hyperbolize the problem, and the sugar packets (i, a genius, strategically) stuffed under the shorter leg would be no match for the gesticulations that your stories required.

we would eat and laugh and forget why we fell apart.

we would drink irresponsibly, especially for a lunch,

and we would blur the newly-instated boundaries,

nostalgic for the good before the bad.

“nothing matters. i mean everything’s a nightmare.”

the mantra. the legitimization of recklessness. a shrug and a very wide smile.

i would be drunk enough to confidently grab the door handle on a pulled-over car that wasn’t our uber and you would say, “why you acting like a silver prius looks even remotely like a navy blue honda” and i would sputter something about assuming all ubers were silver pri-i and you would say “PRI-I???? you gotta be KIDDING me” and you’d do that guttural giggle thing that was incredibly satisfying because of novelty alone.

i was going to call you when you got back into town.

we had time.

and with all this time

here i am

waiting for a day that doesn’t exist.

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As It Turns Out, I'm a Walking Cliché