Depression mimics the broken heart
scrolling through pictures of decay with the lights out
to keep a sepia smile in perfect focus
and out of the gutter.

In the minutia of the day
I find a hundred reasons to recall her face and forget why,
while I’m really only thinking of her Jewish best friend
because she fit into tighter dresses
and never responded to my pleasantries with anything
other than scorn.

This is the central thesis of romance,
that loving a girl means not speaking what’s on your mind
and instead,
saying anything else.

It’s this type of honesty that she believed would have salvaged whatever we were.
But I have my doubts
that the truth could have set us free
let alone
make us like each other.