Just My Luck

​A notebook rests on the top shelf in my closet.
Inside it, the last proof of anything I felt for you.
My best friend says I should burn it. That it’s therapeutic.
She says that if I push you out, I can let you go.
Why do my fists always clench when she says that?
 
I saw my first picture of him. Even in shades of gray,
He brings new color to the world. To you.
It was never in the cards for me to be around.
It’s just my luck, you know, for nothing to go my way.
This isn’t the first time I’ve had “almost but not quite.”
 
I was eighteen when I met my best friend for the first time.
I’d known her for three years when I finally worked up
the nerve to find her and tell her I'd fallen in love with her.
I found her having sex in the backseat of my car
with a woman she’s dated for five years now.
 
The maid of honor and I had a weekend full of complicated
questions, stolen glances and a few too many drinks.
Her heart was broken. I hoped to fix it, but physicality is an
important part of healing.  Her new bride found a way past
the distance, and I found my way past goodbye.
 
They say that Los Angeles doesn’t have four seasons.
And I believe it, because this summer was the longest
lasting time in my life. I fell for you a second time,
I jumped, no, leapt into your arms. They were never open.
You closed that door years ago on a hillside in Maine.