Morgan Fu-Mueller 

i saw you on the subway platform, but i was in a hurry. i had to make my train. you waved at me, and i never saw your face.
 
you took my breath away at a rooftop party and whirled off into the night. i thought you were beautiful and cleansing as night air. you thought i was a bit fresh.
 
i saw you, unreal, gestalt, under cruel times square fluorescents. you held my hair back while i threw up. i cut it the next week.
 
i engraved love and panic down my arms in my best handwriting. the lines would vanish as soon as i finished.
 
i glimpsed you at the bottom of a bottle of pine-sol, in the gutter by the curb, at the edge of a knife. we kissed, once, but it was chaste—no tongue. an affectionate little collision of heart. i was young then. i didn't really know how to kiss yet. i didn't intend to learn.
 
my second love, my second heartbreak. i don't miss you. we'll meet again in eighty years, and we'll go behind the locked door together. i'm in no rush. i won't try to peek.