A Pack of Oreos (Alternatively Titled 'Youth')

for Salma


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 

your keys.


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

an intervention.

This poem is about: 


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