the way I suspected it in March, the way I anticipated it in April.

I knew it in May that I would not mind another whole summer of burning if the flames were my cheeks flushed red and your crooked smiles; a sip of coffee too hot for the tongue from across a table; a sacred place shared miles and miles from either of our residential states but entirely a home.

I knew it in May that the heat would break with the rain and I would dance to a list of songs with your name written as the label; it would get easier to breathe on days you were present and harder to speak on days I was not; I would never mind if good mornings continued to bloom flowers behind my breast plate while good nights lingered through soft dying rose petals.

I knew it in May that I would love you; that I may have already loved you for some time since but I certainly would never not love you again.