I don't walk down my alley anymore.
I don't look behind the garage.
I'm not sure if I'm scared I'll see your bike
or if I'm scared I won't.
I don't look down Oakdale anymore.
I don't try to catch you on your way to school.
I don't count the minutes it'd take you
to see when I should leave.
Except
on the days I do.
I don't check for your bike when I get to school.
I don't ask you what you're reading
from the library,
this week.
You don't help me with my chemistry.
I don't know if it's because I don't have chemistry
or because I don't have you.
I don't talk to my friends about you anymore.
I've got nothing new to tell the moon,
about you.
Don't ask me if that's because I'm getting over you
or because I can't say your voice without
my voice shaking, with anything besides
guilt.
I don't walk down my alley anymore.
I'll never walk down Gay Street again.