I hate you.
Don’t think I don’t see you there, in the back of my mind, looking all comfortable and relaxed in the recliner of my memory.
I hate you…
And the way you get the smoke from your fancy French cigarettes to curl up into the cursive of your name and waft over my dreams until I wake up with the nightsweats from the very smell of you.
Did I mention that I hate you?…
Especially when you jump up and give me that irritating thumb and forefinger on your forehead when I am on a date with yet another incomplete loser.
I think I hate that reminder the most.
I really should issue an emotional subpoena to evict you from my senses, kick you to the curb with your jammed-up boxes of good times and other useless junk.
But instead I think I’ll just let you stay there, in the back of my mind, while I slowly bury you under the debris of yet another poem.