Charlie
I never kissed you goodbye,
and you know I never will.
I sent you a text message,
followed by a phone call,
and now the trees are flying
past me as I take these turns.
Funny how that was October,
and now it’s April, and I think
I miss you, or maybe I miss the
way you nibbled my lip, the way
you held my hand, asked me
what I was thinking about.
I hope it hurt, when I left you,
when I told you that sorry wasn’t
enough. Falling isn’t enough to
keep me a secret from everyone
you love, tucked away a state
away. I hope it hurt this morning.
I hope you know that the
passenger seat no longer smells
like your perfume — only the
girls that came after you, each
willing to kiss me in the daylight,
walk down the street with me.
Only girls with long hair, never
wild curls, no more reminders of
parking in the lot down the street
so I could kiss you goodnight
where your parents, your siblings,
your neighbors couldn’t see.
I don’t kiss at midnight anymore,
and I don’t do late night dinner
dates or movies at eleven. I drive
home alone, moonlight riding shotgun,
and wonder if you remember all the
constellations that I taught you.
Bridget Dolan is a butch lesbian poet from New Market, MD; her pronouns are she/her. When she’s not writing, she’s either in her garden, up to her elbows in potting soil, or napping with her dogs. Her work appears in both literary journals of the University of Delaware: The Main Street Journal and Caesura. Her social media handles are @brigdgetd.
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