they’ll connect me to a polygraph,

strap truth to my fingers,

ask me questions

about you & i.

we haven’t talked

since eighth grade,

since that long hug—

arms tight, hearts sure,

the kind that swore a lifetime

but never endured.

a lifetime of our inside jokes

that only made sense to us,

a lifetime of our talks in the halls,

a million more

late-night calls.

a lifetime of our loud, uncontainable laughs

that always earned us glares,

a lifetime—you and i,

the most broken swear.

we haven’t talked

since the last time i told you i loved you.

now i don’t remember our inside jokes

or our talks in the halls.

i don’t know what we were laughing at

on all of those late-night calls.

they’ll hook me up to the wires,

and i’ll watch my pulse betray me

when they ask if i still love you.

i’ll answer, “no,”

as the needle jitters,

stutters,

like it remembers

what i’m trying not to.

it rises and falls

in the pattern of our laughter—

the kind of laughter we swore was forever,

the kind i can no longer hear.