I like (and do not)  listening to music that reminds me of you
for
one
two reasons

because it often leaves me ***-stranded on the blacktop in
the kamiak parking lot or dropping from heaven, hitting
the ground running without sneakers in a cold sweat on
top of Lake 22, trying to get you to sing and carving
my name into ashy wood while pine needles rain
down on top of my head. But also because of
cold apples--McIntosh candles that were
always lit in your room with windows
that were never closed, never closed on Weekends
on weekdays, in seasons. I've rolled in fake grass and
timed your 100 meter dash, of all the simple things I might
wish that the naivety could have been expanded upon so that
we might have enjoyed the trivial things for a while longer but
I can't beat the clock anymore, sneakers or not. There's no more
hartford in this soul, just chubby cheeked memories and the scent
of ramen and your mom's borderline vegan cooking.