The day I turned nine, I hiked up
            my honeysuckle tutu, and raced
                        to find you –
            there, sprawled out on the hissing
asphalt driveway, with precise strokes of neon
            sidewalk chalk, you were writing the words
                        “I love you.”
            We dotted our names with lop-
                        sided stars and scribbled
stick-figured versions of ourselves years and years
            in the future. And when the first zig-
                        zagged bolt crossed the sky, we screamed
                                    and then laughed, loud
                        barking laughs at the heavy raindrops.

The night I turned twenty, I cried
            myself to sleep, and tucked the paper under
                        my crocheted blanket. With eyes
            closed, I counted the colors behind my lids –
                        three, four, a kaleidoscope.
Your name still appeared though
– inky, blurring into the foreground,
                        along with that childhood chalk.