I never saw your dad’s new turtle in its tank in Milwaukee.

I never told you how you looked leaning over the railing at Griffith’s Observatory. The city flickered like a jar of lightning bugs beneath us that night, but the telescopes were disappointing. I didn’t mind.

I never saw your sketches.

I never made room for you on the blanket at Dockweiler Beach. We left the others by the fire and walked to the foaming black water to investigate what we thought might be a body. I still think it was.

I never reached for your hand by the Ferris wheel.

I never gave in when you said, “You have no idea how hard it’s been not to kiss you,” and I stared at my empty paper cup, wishing I had gotten a bigger size because I needed something more to do with my hands.

I never found something better to do with my hands.

I never let you touch the scabs I got when I fell off the sidewalk after I decided I was someone who should jog.

I never touched the scars you got when your lungs collapsed and they pumped them back up like a balloon and they woke you up to breathe with your chest still open.

I never turned to face you when you kissed the top of my head. I didn’t want to move. You told me about your family instead.

I never told you about my family.  

I never told my family about you.

I never put my head on your shoulder at two in the morning when we sat in a booth under a flickering yellowish light, shivering with our little Styrofoam cups of hot chocolate in our hands, trying to keep our burning eyes open as we waited for our friends.

I never met your friends from home. I think I would have liked them.

I never sat in the passenger seat of your Oldsmobile with the radio on and the windows down as we drove through Nevada, then Kansas, then Illinois, but it’s probably for the best since your car never would’ve made it anyway.