Lest we remember

i wouldn't kiss him
even though his hands feigned
they were acquainted with my waist
after his boring lesson
on the only three constellations i can find

even though
we left the crowd to smoke alone
and he slung
bad lines
over the old whiskey barrel next to me
easing in again
like i would stop talking
to notice

it was sealed even before
[in my conical periphery]
he huffed perfectly
gave walls the look that means
i am
definitely
winning

because despite the show of foolhardy confidence
he didn't have a thread
from your cursably charming drawstring
that often
slims my features into
an awfully plausible

"fuck you"

not a speck
of the sparkle of chase in your knowing
and here
is where i would mention
he has nothing on your lips
your hard arms
or how they remind me
what freedom and honesty
are supposed to be
but another cliche
would be nigh unbearable

there is a flock of reasons
i suppose
that i wouldn't kiss him
but all these limp moments could think to taunt
was the fact
he wasn't you