She looked over her cup and said, “You used to be different.”

Thirteen letters, means fishing for spiders?

        Spider fishing?

You used to be different.

        One can’t step in the same puddle twice.

No. Seriously, you’ve changed.

        Proper increments are meant to be too small to notice.

You dyed your hair green eight days after we met.

        Or you met me some time before I found a coupon.

You told me how to roast chicken in a sestina.

        You had no idea.

You rolled out of bed to take notes.

        You seem displeased.

I revile you.

        You mean I revolt you?

Yes. Like that.

        Is this going where you thought it would go?

I don’t plan these things, FFS, but I don’t imagine failure.

        I imagine nothing else.

You used to be romantic.

        Realist.

You said you’d been trying to meet me.

        Or I was drunk and singing along.

You said “I want to take you home. I want to give you children.”

        Earworm.

You spend more time fixing tools than using them. Just saying.

        Apropos of nothing, a packet of jubes is not a single serve.

You said that last year.

        You said you were happy.

You were happy, and saying and being aren’t even the same thing.

        Checkmate.

//ends

>> month of poetry 2012