You wanted to be a Matthew,
or Mat or Mathieu –
something more exotic, more sophisticated
or maybe just more.
I know you don’t remember that night
so long ago
when we packed up my shitty apartment
and that Jackson Brown album, on repeat,
said everything I’d ever wanted to.
For the first time, I thought I might know you
But as it often is,
the light of day was harsh –
that half bottle of cough syrup, mine,
left from some bout of bronchitis
stolen, brazenly thrown on the floor.
And Matty, I only bring it up now
because I’m still too close to write the rest,
because I need you to know
that I found the empty bottle
and that it always made me wonder
what that night meant.
God, it made me feel so lonely.