In Which A Boy I Love Loves Someone Else


A boy I love loves someone else.
And I know I should stop calling him Boy,
should stop clinging to our adolescent life – like, maybe,
if I think about it enough, I can somehow breathe it back into existence.

Did you know if you dream about him five nights in a row, your heart becomes a time machine?

You will try to take his mouth in yours,
wake up in his mother’s house and make bagels
in the morning.

I won’t rush this time.
Won’t make him question if I want to be there.

His ache isn’t louder. I mean, yes, I know it was louder
but that didn’t mean mine wasn’t powerful,
didn’t mean I didn’t love him just as much.

I am sorry he mistook introversion
for leaving.

I am sorry he mistook my distended belly
for unhappiness with him.

I am sorry he mistook my broken body
for a body that wanted someone else.

I just didn’t know I had allergies.
There is nothing deeper.

And I am sorry I got better after we split.
And I am sorry for how that looked.
And I am sorry for the photos and the dancing and the college life that seemed
instantly better after our goodbye.

That’s not what it was.

A boy I love loves someone else.
He smiles at me across a white table.
We are quiet when our fingers touch.

Still, after all this time,
the love never stopped.

But a boy I love loves someone else.
There is no time machine.
There is no us.

Purchase Ari Eastman’s latest poetry book Bloodline.

Bloodline is available as a physical and electronic book. You can buy it here