I am very much aware
that there
there in between year 1 and year 2
there was a time when I
was sad or crying,
lying
about my intentions or how I was really feeling
when you said that,
did that,
or just didn’t.
There was a time,
I laughed so hard the car shook
with joke-heavy drops
of happiness slowly soaking into the seats
like cigarette smoke
into even the most resistant hair.
There,
between year 1 and 2
was you,
waiting, floating,
flying without reason,
through similar seasons,
where every day is spring or summer
Bummer
to have missed the first flecks of snow,
but you cannot miss what you didn’t know,
that I could be so different,
better,
like machinists installed me with
robotic contentedness,
so automatic I forgot
to be sad or to cry
my heart pumped so high
I ignored the fact that I should pop.
And when the moments stopped—
When I breathed again.
I could feel you,
there between year 1 and year 2,
nestled down in runner’s gait,
ready for year 3 through 98,
for the auto-happy,
of which I am very much aware.