It is June, and I wish to write you poems;
poems and songs and letters that I will never send.
Summer has just begun, but all I can think of
is how much I am already wishing it were spring.
You come home in the spring.
I watched the sun rise this morning.
It was the kind of sunrise that you love,
with clouds outlined in purple.
I took photographs, but everyone knows
that pictures of skyscapes are mockeries.
I miss you and the way you see things.
You were always a better writer than I,
and the reason for this is that you know more than I.
You see everything, but still pretend not to,
which is fine but it confuses me sometimes.
She forwarded your email to me.
It was a typical email to tell them you were fine,
but your words consumed me (as they always do).
I should probably write you, but things are oddly awkward,
and that message was not meant for me.
When I was eleven and you were thirteen, our canoe tipped.
I remember your hand around my waist
as you flipped the boat and helped me in
and told me a funny story about a grizzly bear.
I remember looking at you
Two summers ago, I kissed your best friend.
You were dating some girl
and I decided that I wasn’t worth you.
Remember that bracelet you made for me when we were kids?
With a flushed face and soft voice,
you told me you made it at school.
I don’t know where it is, but sometimes it’s all I want.
Last summer, I hugged you as I said goodbye.
I cried all the way home.