We sat with a pair of burgers between us,
the Purdue game muted on the big screen.
We talked about high school and
Friday night football and
health insurance and
what it feels like to get hit by a car --
our first date, just five years removed.

You have abstract works painted like satin
in your skin
like scars
in your skin
like memories
like nightmares
like “I wish I would have’s…”

I tease you gently;
you beg me not to work so much
You frown at your plate
swirl your fries in ketchup and
in this, I see fragments of the old you.

I ask if you’re going to church tomorrow,
and you reflect the question
like it’s a challenge
like belief is always shaped with doubt
like even when there’s faith, voices still waiver.

There are still tiny fractures
in your bones
in your voice
in our memories.

There are still raindrops in your eyes
when we talk about high school and
Friday night football and
health insurance and
what it feels like to get hit by a car.

There are still scars in your skin
in your mind
in my heart --
Our first date, just five years removed