i tell the hummingbirds in my belly
to keep track of all the places
they've started fluttering

a doorway in virginia
where you stopped and gave me that grin
and i heard your voice calling me "honeybun"
for weeks

a couch in memphis
pulled out and covered like a ghost
i felt transparent as you slept
and rolled over to me
but you curled around me like a flower petal
and that's a smoothness
i can still feel

a backseat in south carolina
an alternating current of whispers
about things we can't change now
and jokes about things we
wouldn't want to

a living room in knoxville
your assortment of alcohol was
displayed on your cheeks
rosy and pink and i wrote a poem
about it already, about how
i wanted a hand on my knee
but i was fine with little giggles
on the walk home

on a plane in california
you were thousands of miles away
but i needed you to tell me
that i'd make it home safely
and you did

a late night diner on melrose place
french fries and opinions
i told you something important
and i don't think you've forgotten it

four a.m. in the back of the library
talking about biology
and our favorite things in life
we'd laugh until nothing was funny
and then we'd just be honest

in a booth in the middle of a mcdonald's.
i had forgotten this one.
i had been wondering recently
when our friendship actually started.
what were we,
before honeybun?
before sharing a bed?
before car rides home?
before too much wine?
before i needed your steadiness?
before too much backstory?
before hours of biology i never even learned?
before that first time,
when our group of friends
said, "let's meet at mcdonald's"
and it turned into just me and you?

when did the hummingbirds start fluttering?
when will i learn
that they're not going to stop?