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.