If I forget,

to remember:

It took seven

days,

and she kissed me

first.

An early morning

rainstorm,

I bumped into

her on purpose but

she just thought I

was being clumsy,

or drunk.

We'd crammed into the

backseat of her

coworkers car,

and the trunk was

filled with bottles

of wine.

I remember I

danced with her friends,

but only so she'd see

me dancing.

We'd met at Miami

for this,

and I remembered

the night I saw her;

I'd asked my friend

for her name,

but wouldn't let her

introduce us.

I wish I'd known

that she'd left the

bar to cry in a

taxi,

and find her way home.

She told me she

liked my jacket,

it was my father's

and I tried to say

something interesting,

but didn't.

I thought she

didn't like me,

and she thought

the same of me.

When she kissed me,

after our early morning

rain storm wandering,

and I closed the door

of the taxi,

I thought how nicely

it

had

all

gone.

If I forget

to remember—

I loved her first,

and you can ask

my friend Kelsey,

for proof.