I got no problems with havin to box up your Christmas stockin;

I don’t mind bangin my head on the top bunk

now that you ain’t there to cuss at me;

it’s pretty nice havin the bathroom to myself

I don’t much like how quiet it is here

with the lid of your fiddle-case shut and cobwebby

but I don’t miss Vivaldy and Baytoven,

always screechin and complainin at 2 in the mornin

I threw out all the sympathy cards,

I stopped feelin sick when people talk about their sisters

and as much as I miss the way you used to tickle me

I’m glad that you ain’t stealin my hair-clips no more

Really the only thing that gets to me—still—

is that half-half second when I’m in mid-leap

about to crash feet-first into a fresh and shiny puddle

and I look down

and I see my eyes, warm and laughin like melted chocolate,

and they’re lookin up at me,

lookin like yours did when you was playin that fiddle,

when I sneaked up behind you to give you a kiss…

then my boots burrow into your face

and just like that you’re gone again, splatterin like raindrops

and I’m standin there with wet ankles

only me

cryin outa your eyes