Andrew Squitiro

Open

Your girlfriend and I spent the day together
in Central Park, our bodies wrapped like weeds

on a half-dead tree. We only part
when she decides, finally:

it’s late. We walk to the F together, wave goodbye
across the platform—a dandelion stranded

between her hair and ear, her lipstick worn off
like the white keys on a piano. I never know

what she tells you, but tonight, it’s hot out and I’m touching
myself in the shower—eyes closed

so I can picture her better,
her creeping legs,
her shipwrecked eyes,

the wet whisper I give her,
before she fucks you back at home.

If I’m traveling, I carry a polaroid of this girl I used to date until careers and cities split us apart. It’s from when we first met. My hair is long and disheveled, her face is scrunched up like a rat. Years later, we were having a conversation about whether she believed that I still loved her or not. I took out my wallet, thinking the polaroid would be my saving grace. I remember she said exactly, But what does that even mean? I keep the photo still because it reminds me now of that simple question she asked, and how perfectly it describes her and me at the same time.

Andrew Squitiro’s poetry can be found in places such as [PANK], DIAGRAM, and Powder Keg. Essays are on The Volta and Good Men Project. He is fond of chess and airplanes. On September 1st he will be moving to New Orleans, so if you’re a resident of that city, please say hi if you want.