we used to talk about secondhand stories
on the second story window sill,
like the price of gas wasn't worth more than
a penny for your travels and
we could get maps for free on Saturdays.
i remember the earthy words that could
stick in our soils,
building something beautiful right
before our little bodies.

we seem so big,
like giants walking and shaking
hands of glowing fires inside of
chest cavities.
you used to count my ribs
like the tracks that trains
used to carry heavy loads on.
the taste of honey bees
and the fees we paid to
feel good again never
really mattered
after the search was over.

you found me,
counting the bolts rusted
in the eroded planks of
wood that we chose as our
hidden spot that was
in plain view.
i like how you can
make me laugh when
we aren't even talking about
anything that funny.
you are always good like that.