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“Mark your calendar” you laughed, and I knew you really meant mark
time, all those blank days separating the minutes we could steal.
I mean, the minutes we could spend together, as friends. Would I lie?

I set the table, spreading the cloth like a blanket. The forks lie
in their folded napkins like we spoon in a sleeping bag. You were so careful not to mark
me that I found no trace of you at all, not even the t-shirt I forgot to steal.

I helped you pack your trinkets, to wrap your life in old newspapers and steal
away from yourself. I stood there for five minutes smelling exhaust instead of your perfume. I lie
very still at night now, inhaling the scent of cars to remember you by. I go to my mailbox looking for your post mark.

We mark our days like this: the minutes we steal make up the hours in which we lie.

This poem is part of an unofficial challenge among the editors and friends of yeah write. Check out the other tritinas:

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