your gift was always
the simple things.

all the unplanned clichés.

you remember.
those kisses in the rain
whispers meant for ears of lovers
the late-night walks to nowhere.

i can never forget
those ******* clichés
or how they seemed
so original to me.

maybe it was love, maybe it still is.
maybe that's all love is, or all it was.

(thoughts like these
tend to complicate
the pains of a poet)

though our time was just an inhalation
of adolescent affection,
i still see your smile in the rings
of my coffee.

i still feel your fingertips
between the hair of the trees.

i still have some of your gifts.

you remember.
pressed flowers
goosebumps
scars of gentle kisses.

i won't forget
that your gift was always
the simple things.