Are you still embroiled in tiny scandals?
Has love passed you by yet again?

Do you have money and a room of your own,
or would my Virginia Woolf still be disappointed?

When I wrote you that sonnet, I was caught
in the same net as you, or a part of it.

It’s been months since that was true:
I tore myself out and began to breathe normally.

Nevertheless, my mind strays, and
here I am, asking the air how you are

but too nervous to actualize the question
and shoot it your way on a paper plane.

I couldn’t have been the only one who asked
about your pain, out of all the friends,

all the hookups and all the bands
who said you can tag along no problem.

But now I don’t know how you dress.
I forget if you still have short hair.