And he said,
as his last words
of farewell,
“You are very keen on me.”

You’re right.
I was keen when you
told me that you saw me as your wife.

I was too keen
when you wanted my father’s number.

I was too keen when you
whispered you loved me,
bragging that you
vocalised first
what I thought I felt.

I never imagined a word
could be so taunting.
Now engraved
in eyes I once admired
for their kindness.

But oh, how I wish
I could clean my
mind from the last words
I heard you utter,
the way I cleaned my white
Converse
from the mud of our first hike
by pouring bleach,
soaking bleach.

You said
I was keen on you.

I guess bleach would also
remove words from your mouth