The poetry class taught me to start strong, end strong.
I am supposed to write down the greatest thing about you,
that I could imagine about you.
We ordered pizza.
We told our friends we couldn’t meet up.
There were cherries and bourbon sauce in the fridge.
You dragged our mattress into the living room.
Turned out all the lights.
Watched an actor try too hard.
The phone didn’t ring.
The commercials were funny.
I ran my fingernails down your arm.
We forgot napkins.
Studied the way the windows make you look at them
instead of out them
when rain gives in.
Nothing was on.
Nothing is on.