B-Sides

she traces back 

the unmistakable indents

of thirty eight days of maybes

etched into her skin.

the record stays

on the B-Side

while the boy caresses the inside

of her festering thoughts.

that way 

when it stops spinning, it's never

the beginning and always

the end.

there are three painfully new nickels

resting in a line on the table 

and instead of butterflies, she decides, 

it must be nickels

clanging around between her nervous ribs. 

the wretched hollow of 'could haves'

ricochets off the shiny metal.  

will he look like Ohio

when walks out of the Fullerton 

subway station?

teasing cracks on the sidewalk

spell out 'Nick' in bold print. 

maybe he's still in Ohio 

and his blue windbreaker won't

ever come with his matching eyes.

after all, she only knows his summer skin

and today there are clouds. 

it's fifty six degrees.