Song

Once I sang a bittersweet song,
full of harmony and occasional dissonance.
I sang with a girl who knew it by heart.
(We had written it ourselves.)

Some words whispered and drifted
on airwaves too subtle for anyone else.
Some words we shouted
until our ears rang with irreverence and romance,
(and we were caught and scolded
for being in the basement unsupervised.)
Simple words like "someday" and "maybe" and "if only"
were seeds planted in Indian soil:
We were nomads who sought the buffalo
and abandoned the crop, shouting and singing and whooping—

All this was years ago, and unlike those seeds, we grew—
    as quickly as winds change,
    as hastily as a divorce changes one’s address,
    as hurried as an empty goodbye, while the sky darkens
        and her mom packs heirlooms and valuables into the car,
        and says it’s only two hundred miles to Denver,
        and I’m sure you two can still write.
            My breath comes short,
            and I have nothing to say,
            but she says promise me, promise me you won’t forget our song,
                promise you won’t forget—

I didn’t chase her as they left the development,
and I didn’t sit down on the wet grass to weep.
Standing on the curb, I watched a car drive away
with all the music I could ever know.
I opened my mouth to sing
    but the only word to escape
    was 'please.'