OUT YESTERYOUTH

When you called me up
asked me over,
served me my favorite wine
(which is Scotch),
and offered me
a new chance into your pants,
the way I responded
may not have been entirely honest.

I told we’d already had
our perfect moment
the last time
before the arguments became excessive
and out differences proved wider
than out love could cross.

I referred to the time on the bridge
in the snow,
where we warmly held each other
in the chill of that reflective afternoon
and how anything we could attain
after that glorious instant
would be pale,
redundant.

And you agreed,
and we hugged again
and I thanked you
for the lovely offer
and you thanked me
for the lovely words
and I thanked you
for the hand job
and the trip down mammary lane.

But as I said before,
the truths I spoke
were not complete.
They were true enough,
and we could never regain
what we’d shared back then
in our yesteryouth,
but mostly because
of how fat you got.