I knew—but couldn't exactly
admit I might
love you
probably
at bleary two
o'clock in the morning—there
on the greasy head-
congested
floor of some out-of-town
public high
school's huge and pitch-
black auxiliary gym—when I found
myself
picturing you sleeping
soundly on the other side of the scrim
with greater precision than I thought
about drill sets
or Radiohead
and even more conspicuously
than I felt
the ramifications
of my melodramatically
dwindling faith—in
Tylenol P.M.
