You spoke to me and
I talked but I was always thinking of you each time you speak, really
and of that time you had asked,

then you wore loose clothing and always a thin white tshirt
your laced up shoes scuffed down an 8pm phoenix tarmac

It was Tuesday
or Wednesday, one of those times I saw you enough to
not remember you
or think about you

'How old are you?'
'18,' I had said

Thinking of it and writing of it now
Youth then was nothing but dust
a shameless episode of trying to magnify
eventuality
sexuality
personality

Yet all it mastered was
the culmination of nothingness
ignorance everyone saw but yourself