I led her down the river, but she treated herself as if she was not there,
as if she did not want to hold my hand,
but I'd see the spaces between her fingers flap and rustle
and her joints would crack
for some in-between hand, or object to hold

We looked at the river, it was
mighty fine and blue,
blue like her dress, and blue like my shoes.

It was like that one day,
in July, where she and I snuck into that hole-in-earth, the hole, smack dab into the center of the dry river. It was where she taught me how to smoke,
and I would then unravel her dress from her body, on concrete,
and sneak a quick touch,
or two.

We looked at the river, and I led her here,
by myself.
It was quiet, running, and grey,
but loud.

We looked at the river,
and it reminded me of you.