Head on your lap
One leg crossed over the other
And lying on the sofa,
I was picking at an old scab
A wound that left an ugly mark
To remind me of all that I desperately try to forget
A strangely satisfying activity, that.
And I was telling you
Of things that I should have done, and said
Vindication! Revenge! Justice! Satisfaction!
But I was really just talking to myself.
Until you broke into my reverie
And you said,
“But that wouldn’t be classy.
And you’re always classy.”
And that was all.