pedaling bicycles
through our neighborhood
since we were eight—
you ahead, me behind,
my scraped knee from trying to keep up.
you came in for water,
reminded me to return your borrowed pen,
then walked toward the terrace stairs.
you always smelled like cinnamon and soap.
lights off in the silent house.
your hand on the handle.
i turned the key as you pulled—
we stalled.
after the door opened,
i glanced at you.
so did you.
the air thickened.
our breaths shortened.
i was so afraid of what i felt.
but you walked to the terrace.
i tasted mercury in my mouth.
louder than silence
stood between us.
when you were done,
i locked the terrace—
the wind here is terrible,
animals come in if you don't.
downstairs, i followed.
nothing to say.
"wait," i said,
and went to the kitchen.
you followed—
held my hand on the table.
my feet finding yours underneath
like they already knew the way.
i cupped your face.
the radiator hummed.
your clavicle took all the shadow
as you turned into me.
my finger tugged
at red-checked cloth
of your shirt.
your head in my lap,
strain on left of your neck.
poppies dying on the windowsill.
the cold pressing its pale mouth to the glass.
the slow rising of your chest,
your finger tracing half-circles on my wrist,
the cacophony of your sigh
scratching my mind.
until you left.
i liked you with the whole of me—
every careful thing you didn't.
i was building an archive of your body:
your crooked smile,
the crease that showed
when you tried not to laugh,
how you bite your nails
and i'd slap your hand away.
words hovered between us
like unclaimed coats—
heavy, damp with what we babbled.
stay. stay. stay.
i intended that,
always.
the cold came in sideways,
the only thing that lingered after you left.
did we not talk enough?
or did we talk around
the wound instead of into it?
i stare out the window.
my gaze scatters like dandelion pappus
over streets i know by instinct—
dust and metal and silence.
we knew this wasn't forever.
dawn was breaking.
you rushed with your untied shoes,
door shut smooth behind you.
i stood in the kitchen,
holding my own mind together.
now i kneel by the window.
frost blooming on the glass.
i press my forehead to it
and let the cold correct my temperature.
i try to remember:
did your hand shake
when you touched me?
or was that mine,
trying not to grab too hard?
memory edits generously.
the poppies are dead now.
i never changed the water—
when i finally noticed,
it smelled sour.