love with two feet on the ground, or proust never says hello.

i knew a girl once,
she called me ---
and i turned around,
for the not-name in her blue eyes and blue hair.
it was enough then to believe,
but you don’t love me anymore and
i smoke unfiltered cigarettes in the rain,
the residue and smoke like the lingering of gods.
your smile: new worlds of hate
and the thick dark line between love and loathing;
i walk it slowly like the curb into oncoming traffic,
like three facts between the clouds and me.
i turned around,
the muscles in my back flexing (unborn wings),
i bit into a madeline, a hundred pages later i blinked and said that’s not my name.