I used to be in love with this Vietnamese girl who I swear was a cat in a past life. she was all lithe limbs and pounce and indifference. her smile was sharp and feline but when she was in a good mood she would crawl beside me and tell me stories. 

one time she told me her dad abused her when she got bad grades, and I promised I would never lay a hand on her. unless she asked. admittedly, I spent a lot of time thinking about what it would be like to kiss her. if she would shut her eyes. if she would sink her teeth into my lip because it wouldnt be a real kiss unless it hurt. 

meow.

her parents didn't like me because I was a stray caucasian dog with a tucked tail and I always forgot to take my shoes off in their house.

she was a cat. he was a dog. can I make it any more obvious?

what am I doing?

anyway, this afternoon I took a wrong turn and ended up at a fenced isosceles triangle of green grass and birch trees. and dogs and their suburban owners. I sit down and stay there until it gets dark and cool and I tried not to cry at the dog park because she left and although I'm no longer infatuated by her cat creep I miss the way she would curl into my lap and fall asleep like I was the safest person in the world. 

we're sitting around a circular table, in circular silence.

you're late to class, Miss Wrinkled NASA Tshirt With The Sleeves Rolled Up with hair the color of dirty pennies. workshopping poetry, chin lowered and doubled but countered with a defiant freckle scraped nose. eyes hidden behind bangs behind sad sonnets about broken relationships. those eyes might be green, I'm convinced they're green, but you look away every time I try to double check. 

look at me! I'm trying to profile you for our next assignment and you're a catch! 

but no you turn to the squrriely greasy author of the poem we're workshopping: "this is lovely, this breakup poem puts taylor swift to shame." the class laughs and the guy says "for real? thanks!" and turns to the next commenter, and I'm the only one who catches your smirk, flashing and fading and gone. 

your own poem might be about suicide but I can't know for sure, it's hidden behind a limerick about a fucking fox. 

I'm onto you, babe.