We ate five packs of Oreos
on the bus when we weren't
supposed to. We ate it messy,
you see, cream and crumbs
where the chin meets the mouth.
We were young back then, I
never knew how to format my poems
and you were charming like
dead flowers lined up in array.
We couldn't read the neon lights
of the vinyl store because of that
stupid blur on the window and I
remember we ran across Brookside
Park, spent hours trying to find
I don't know why you were so adamant
of finding them. You never wanted to go
home when you were with me.
But all I knew is this: we shared earbuds
long enough for me to memorize
your breaths and your murmurs.
I counted your crooked teeth and
wondered if they would ever line
up had we would stopped eating those
damn Oreos on the bus.
But your teeth are as relentless
as you; they probably wouldn't.
As if love could ever stage you