and the whole dive bar goes still,
like everyone suddenly remembers
someone they failed to keep.
I remember breakup songs
and makeup sex
in stairwells that smelled like mildew
and bad decisions.
Walls thin enough
to hear strangers ruining their lives too.
I remember bartending brunch,
doing coke until my heart felt biblical,
giving free fries to friends
like generosity could stop time.
I thought my twenties were permanent.
Like neon.
Like hangovers.
Like being wanted.
I remember rainy nights in Brooklyn,
missing the last train,
trying to get the Rumbler back into the city,
freezing on the platform,
wanting the night to never end
because daylight meant reality again.
I remember not knowing what to say
when she said, “I love you,”
softly,
with that fragile Kentucky sadness
that made me want to disappear
before I disappointed her.
Now I remember everything too late.
Standing on the Lower East Side,
watching my reflection dissolve in bar windows,
trying to hide
from the life that kept happening without me.
And Bon Iver keeps singing
like heartbreak is holy.
And maybe it is.
Maybe some people are born
already nostalgic
for their own lives.