you swore, with every space between your teeth, that his words would not let the halves of your heart split vertically or that when conversation existed in your two minds that you’d wash your hands. he kept his lips sealed, washed you away from his mouth as he lingered on the tip of your tongue. the time he crossed his fingers with his own instead of yours crossed your mind a time or two, but by the time his shoulders carried less weight than yours, you realized that over was already in his vocabulary and that you were just another bad word his mother told him to never say aloud. you were never said aloud, you were never spoken of when his mother asked him why and you were never given the chance to come up–you were an ellipses catching wind of the empty piece of paper. you were never supposed to cross paths again, cross t’s or meet each other’s eyes. his momma would always say that you had the biggest eyes she’d ever seen–something not quite doe-eyed, but nothing close to dull. his momma knows best, as all momma’s do, and she told him, “son, she is…”

his mind never strayed from you, at one time in your lives.

she is, she is, she is–