st. george's gardens

philly tastes like london today: wet brick, soggy mulch, disintegrating cigarettes. tiny doors & sour flower pots, darkening from the drool dripping down, down. the sewer swells with pride, a job well done. swallow. the streets are named so pretty here. spruce. locust. chestnut. but trees bear no fruit. city planners & misogyny. carpe diem, i guess. what is freedom? memory? the pigs are here & i am still a selfish little girl. i don’t know if london was better or if i was just younger. i don’t know if it still vibrates at the same frequency it used to, conjuring all the energy from dead romans & oliver cromwell’s granddaughter. it was love, wasn’t it, even if it didn’t last forever? she loved me, didn’t she, even if she walked away & left me with her mattress & comforter & eyelashes? she loved me, didn’t she? she didn’t write it in the card & she didn’t wish me a happy birthday at all. she was there when i needed her except for when she wasn’t. she was there when i needed her except at the end. & she showed up in bed spreads for others but not for me. but she loved me, she did…didn’t she? she didn’t say goodbye. i guess neither did i. two way streets & all that. & i sucked off her ex boyfriend once. maybe twice. (okay, it was twice, but that makes it sound worse & i’m trying to paint myself the victim here, so let’s not mull over the facts, okay?) i sucked off her ex boyfriend once just to prove to myself someone could see us as equals. want us both. but there’s no balanced equation here. never was. i always came up short. in my eyes. in hers. maybe i never forgave her for leaving. maybe i haven’t forgiven her for leaving again. maybe the riptide of her birth meant all she could ever do was walk away. & maybe the swaying of mine meant all i could do was stay. & resent. & grow grudges in the sour flower pots. lock myself in a memory of hallucinations & curbside musings & velvet sofas & cocaine. i still see her ghost gliding across that bridge, mocking me in monotone & skinny jeans & lavender strands & raindrops & fog. she was never to be captured. the butterfly i let go. & i let go, i let go, so why is my fist still closed? fingernails puncturing palm & i miss her. that’s what it all comes down to. i miss her. & the decade we loved. but on days like these, it’s cemeteries. a memory dead & gone. she loved me once, but i do still. i want her back but never will. she loved me once, but i do still.