it was not so long ago
you were showing me 
that burned out stage 
by the river where the
hobos had set up camp, with
their porn magazines 
and other treasures. 
that day, we were becoming
the intruders as opposed
to the intruded.

we had come there, though, 
for a purpose that i know so 
well but can't seem to recall.
i know we had both made up 
our minds about, at least,
one thing.

i remember agreeing with 
everything you said when
you stopped smoking. 
i remember saying the
same thing when you
stopped stopping.

i remember you said you 
would visit sometime 
during the summer. 
when summer came, 
and you didn't, i stopped  
stopping or something.
and kept smoking.

i was thinking to you 
in my head, "now you,
too, are gone." and i 
secretly, still, hope 
you understand it now 
like you did 
back then. 

understand.


when we left the stage, 
one of us said something 
about the hobos
understanding
our curiosity.

i'm not sure 
either one of us 
has gotten 
over it.