I miss being so drunk I thought I was a whore
on Jupiter with Jesus lodged up my butt.
I miss being so nice I curtsied for stop signs
and apologized to streets because my feet
slapped them so hard.
I miss not knowing the angry depths of teapots
the scurrying songs of head mice
the myriad changes and surprises
stuffed inside a solitary accident of a day.
I’m lonely for yesterday’s haunted donut.
I’m biting my bottom lip looking back
at all those arcade tokens and Skee-Ball tickets.
Each song reminds me that once I was rewound
and there were never two songs in a row
by Queen or Bob Dylan.
These pants make me miss ten years ago
when I was delicious in the heat and the thick of it
and every telephone kiss at two o’clock in the morning
rhymed with my name.
Oh the records.
Oh the letters.
Oh the version of me
that was casual apple scented
and cereal box
approved.

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