I wasted ten euros on bus tickers-
I’d forgotten they were prepaid.
We could’ve really used some extra coins
when we saw that stand that sold record players and
old books and the pawn with the typewriter.
I spilled hibiscus all over my jeans
and sweat dripped from my baseball tee
so I changed into a gray shirt.
I felt too exposed with those coraline hands o’ mine
when you wanted ours to hold and were craving tea.
And I came home with 8.264
euros worth of Macedonian denar because I
couldn’t check off social angst today
and with pursed lips all I bought was a
cheaper version of what made yours curl.
I wanted to insist on buying you that pretentious
record with the pretty cover but you
said you changed your mind and we laughed
at the rocker clerk who looked like that
annoying waiter we hate.
I don’t know whether I hate him because
he hates me or because you hate him. I used
to think that guys like that would be the kinda guys
you like. Guys to whom the world belonged.
I never know whether I like a book until I
finish it or clothes until they’re in my closet.
I took pictures, unsure of whether I was mesmerized
because it’s so hard to guess with my blank mind.
And I swear in that moment, when we(I) dragged
everyone inside the museum with the guide who
barely spoke english, when the taxi driver laughed at
my reaction to the public toilet, when we only looked
at the cheapest, most oversized sweaters we could,
the world belonged to us.
When you offered to carry my bag but I said no, when
we bought three blue books, and your hair matched the sky
and your smile matched mine and you asked me
whether I was having fun, the world belonged to us.
But when we had to apologize to the group and you
had a panic attack and you accidentally insulted five people
at once with half a sentence, the world still belonged to us.
Even when our visas got rejected the world still belonged to us.
When we got to the station an hour early and we finally
decided to buy a reasonably-priced bar of chocolate and
told crummy jokes for two hours in the small bus and you
made up with all the girls you insulted, and the annoying kids
sat at the front, the world belonged to us.
Though I’m a dragging shadow and the world is yours
more than mine, aren’t I yours and you mine? Matter of
speech and ego, for though we’re entangled possesion
is no quantum trait.
Maybe that waiter hates me because I shattered
his cafe’s window when i was drunk and slipped
and landed on my back.
Maybe the world isn’t mine.
But my scars are.
You’ve kissed them and I think that
makes them yours as well.
And that says a little something about possession.