I remember it being cold that night.
It was the first time I had walked away
and worried I was leaving something.
It wasn't the kind of cold that
cut
and made itself at home in your bones.
It wasn't even the kind of cold
That strained every breath to feel like your last.
But I could feel the wind biting at and hanging from my ears
while it whispered.
But my mind was moving too fast to make memories,
It seems to never have the time anymore.
But it saves pictures
like polaroids.
Fast flashes of things passed
like whiplashes and mass stashes
of three picture days
of everything
and you.
Flash:
Legs around mine, light jeans, fluorescent lighting.
My heartbeat heats at the thought of it.
My back feels numb.
Flash:
Your smile in my headband, **** you're beautiful.
I think you threw your head back and laughed.
My arm tingles where you touched it.
Flash:
The sky was slate. Your eyes were asking me their first question.
I wished I had chalk.
But you already knew the answer.
I try to tell you now what you already were then,
But there aren't enough words in the world to tell you.
To tell you that your eyes looked like lifesavers.
To tell you that if I could,
I would develop my dreams at the nearest hour
drop shop and lay each frame out
like a quilt
and a collage.
(Because my mind is full
of a kind of mess that is never less
than warming.)
I would tell you that I hold your words under my tongue
To make sure they're always delivered warm.
And that if I leave them in there long enough
the fire starts.
My words melt into mercury
like ice in boiling water.
And I tell myself,
That if anyone really knew the heat,
They would stay the hell out of the kitchen.
But I made you something.