the what

I self-destructed on a couch last Friday night.
Falling into my mind, I crashed into sleep.
But my friend still vibrated, full and splendid
from the night’s Newcastles. She felt super-abundant,
like a bursting August sun, her voice charging with power.
He asked her, “What’s really with Amanda?”
She pauses for her answer, as he regards her words.
Her eyes search the floor for a singular truth,
a way to capture a person with a butterfly net.
“Amanda is pessimistic. She is cynical
and doesn’t trust anybody.”

This week, as he sits on a coffee table, he tells me,
“We talked for, like, six hours, about everything—
with you sleeping between us. It was,
like, way more than I ever wanted to know.”
I’m looking down, comparing my bicep to his,
I say, pleasant and smiling,
“Oh yeah. I figured she’d want to talk
to you about Tyler and Laura.
It’s so weird that they’re together!”
“She talked about you, too.”
I turn into a stone that’s been kicked,
“What? Really? What’d she say about me?”