about that time we went to claire’s office which is really just those steps outside and I sang for you and kathryn and showed you that poem and you asked if it was about me and I said yes, and told you what I couldn’t say out loud and that’s when I knew all that mattered was you, and me, and kathryn, and the quiet, brooding sky

whoever made your eyes didn’t color in the lines.

they left the coffee to trickle into the wind

and to soak into my skin and my fingernails

and to catch there like freckles or planets in orbit

around the metaphor of our breathing in the same way.

the sky had swallowed the colors that sit beneath the ocean,

spilling the sand from our pockets out on the steps.

the gritty concrete hurt our hands and our legs

but we stayed as long as we could, and maybe

you don’t remember but you told me my voice was beautiful.

and I know you meant my song, the way that I warbled

the word prayer, but your voice is beautiful too,

the way you sing, too, but differently—I read somewhere

that melodic voices like yours mean you know

the texture of what I am trying to say to you.

which is that I want to be old with you, to smile toothlessly

with you. not like in the movies with rings on our fingers

but I mean like thelma and louise, except that we

might live forever. and I know this might taste heavy

and too rich in your mouth, and I’m sorry if it does.

but have you seen that movie where the girl says

let’s go somewhere and the boy says sure, where

and the girl says madagascar and the man says

I can’t and the girl says why not and he says life

and she says why not and he says life.

and they each grow old in that moment, separately,

and the silence is the entire ocean in my throat.

so when I see you next and you say hello and I say

let’s go somewhere I don’t really mean madagascar

but will you say anywhere and I will say home?


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