Last Date

I am not afraid to ride my bike in high heels and lacy leggings,
but when I show up to practice reading poetry and you are there,
I am terrified.
You are not supposed to be here, in the reading room of Bachelor Hall,
you are supposed to be in another state,
working tirelessly on that dissertation on literary representations of death
or Chicana feminist authors or
whatever you are writing about now.
You are not supposed to be here, leering at me from the corner,
your hair shorter than it used to be.
Here was not good enough for you.
(And by here, I do mean me,
and, I guess, the university.)
I do not stay to hear anyone else read.
I run out of the room,
my heels clicking like the hooves of a frightened deer,
drawing my headphones out of my bag as I enter the stairwell,
and when I step out into the sunset and see the basket of my bike
overflowing with a bouquet of violets, bluebells, and foxgloves,
and a copy of the diaries of Anais Nin,
I know that you were the one who put them there,
but instead of running back to you, I hit play and
get on my bike.
Pedal home, furiously, the wind catching my skirt
so that it exposes my thighs,
fixating on the sound of sad guitars and my own heartbeat:
six more days, six more days.