Remembering (unless you don't want me to) by Payton Weiner

I told you I would drive to DC for you because
the distance is just gas stations and exit signs,
and there are things to worry about in between
the traffic lights, like long division and kissing
trees and first times and third grade, and I won’t
count the hours, and I will forget about the weeks,
I don’t think time is meant to be synthesized, but
I would buy a clock for you and dance in Times
Square on New Years Eve, like we did at Reagan’s
house in 9th grade, with your dad’s vodka in a water
bottle and our love in a second floor bathroom against
the sink, and we walked out in front of everyone and
laughed about everything. I wish you said bye on the
night you took the train, and even if it was a lie, I wish
you said you missed me, but I heard that cities can do that—
steal your purses and your past—that they can teach you
how to own the loneliness, at the bar, against the glass,
next to strangers tangled in bedsheets, that they can make
suffering a party, out until 4am, until you unlearn the sadness,
until you can’t cry because you’ve collapsed. What I mean to
say is I drove to DC because the distance is just replaying
our memories, and there are things to worry about in
between the traffic lights, like trigonometry and drifting
planes and grandma’s dog and if you don’t remember me.