The fragrance she wore reminded me of academia.
I studied her scent as if majoring in my worst interests.
Her core was as honest as Ramen.
You know. Not many guys can get passed my sense of humor.
She wrote comments on my eyelids in red ink.
I eventually failed, but appreciated the feedback.
Sometimes when I’m reading Cummings at the library,
I drub my fingertips against my lips
feeding myself the commas on the page,
while whispering my 9th grade locker combination.
The cigarette burn on my shoulder still smolders with her initials.
Her kisses tasted like PHDs.
She left me DOA.
(Originally published here)