We meet
in Spring,
but began in
the Fall.
Looking out
the window
of your car
I imagined running
my fingers over
cornfields like pages
of a book.
Watching the sunset
in the rearview mirror
as we moved forward
together, needing
two of my hands to
touch just one of yours.
Followed by 120 days
of realizing we both love
saltine crackers and both drool
when we sleep really well.
You loved listening
to my heartbeat and telling
me how it sounded and
when I couldn’t sleep
you’d pull my head to
your chest and tell me
to listen to yours.
120 days of you guessing
my favorite flower,
complementing my favorite cardigan,
picking my favorite book off the shelf
and reading to me, and attempting to tie
my hair in a ponytail or a bun.
And you touched like
my skin was ice and
your hands skates,
but that turned into you
grasping at me like
the room is flames
and my body oxygen
On the 120th night
you crawled into my bed,
I could taste the alcohol
on your mouth when you
told me you loved me
and I became addicted
to the taste.
After a week
I was Rory and you Dean
and with that began
our 39-day happy hour.
Until the 159th night
when you took back
that you loved me and
I knew I never could again.
My skin regressed
back to ice and the next
45 days was our last call,
numb to it all.
On the 204th day
you were Summer and
I was Tom eating pancakes
in a diner.
All I did was stare
at the buttons on
your shirt and think
about the time we
saw the moon and you
asked for me to write a
poem but little did you
know I have been this
whole time:
Iris Moon
Marble Moon
Missed Moon
Monday Blues
Button Moon
Spring Cleaning.
And never moonstruck.
We lasted 12 more days
and when we ended my first
thought was that I can now:
cut my hair
count again
and write again.
