Sam reads my words

From time to time

(Hello, ex-friend)

I know this

Because he lives in his studio

Now

And that studio was

Very briefly

Mine too.

I had labelled it 

On StatCounter.

If I met him

He would squint

And turn away,

That’s why

I never go to Logan square.

My old bike waits for me

There, forlorn.

I’ll never know

If he wants to read about himself

(Here, you’re welcome)

Or if he has regrets.

It doesn’t matter.

I am braiding my hair,

Waiting for somebody

To sweep me off my feet.

Everything else

Means nothing.