Evening Poem #52

There is a playlist for morning,
one shortened 'melon' for melancholy,
for writing, specific chapters,
playlists whose names are typefaces
and initials of the person
you were thinking of that day
or the person you think would
like the songs or the person
you wish to address the songs,
month and year combinations,
one simple 'Fuck Him' playlist,
occasions, happy, workout--
which is all fine, except
for nights when the cricket
cheer slips down the throat,
you and I tuning variations
of a pillow type, remembering
the M street girls in their
heavy scarves, those weeks
of waterproof crushed in our arms,
when the radio was enough,
when we trusted someone else
to choose our songs, and how that
was somehow better than all these.