I listen to Eminem, sometimes. My headphones on, the volume up, my angst and anger cringing in the face of pop's greatest claim. But that's not why.
I listen for the blonde crew cut. For the baggy jeaned white wife beater of a culture not my own. For the thrill of memories I'll never have except scrawled in this poem. And with you.
For those times we parked and fought or didn't fight and I forgot. For the words that say you better then I ever could. For the ones that are actually good. For Stan. Haunting obsession and dysfunction.
Do you listen to Dido, thinking of me?
For regretting your past, for you. My present, with you. A future without. Not dreaming I'd end up with some commercialized beats on a mix disc of songs we could both appreciate. For Cleaning Out the Closet. Our one common conquer of communication. For the times that disagreement and you lips on mine were a confused passion. A plethora of emotion, of action. And of painfully knowing I could never like Eminem.
Because he reminds me of you.