You’re not the kind
who stops to think
when I’m leaning on your car door,
folding what looks like a question in my hand.
Memories always feel like summer,
hot and ethereal,
and I suppose there’s more left to you than memories,
but it doesn’t feel like it.
You have no winter in you.
And that folded question
looks like a piece of paper,
but it is warm
and my legs are bare
and its crease is the hem of your t-shirt,
held between my fingers.