Driving past your house reminds me of how different
our lives are now, so far from the summer evenings
where we drank your brother’s Yuengling and watched
people walk by the abandoned building from the dance studio
of that free time we lusted after,

that moment I lusted after.
Our lips, pressed hard, too frantic from time lost,
built up for months, wanting, and night walks
through the hushed neighborhood, moving parallel,
knowing someday we might cross,

throwing clothes aside, stale breadcrumbs
of my relationship guiding us to your bed, stripping
me down to my soul as your mouth whispered my name
down my neck, I-love-yous across my chest
as if they wouldn’t dry up

like the rust-colored roses you bought before I left
for school that stayed at home because flowers
can’t survive in a dorm without the love that brought
them up from the soil.