Summer: June.
Pride in Brooklyn, beer, gin and your name.
5 times asked, 4 times denied. The train to Bowling Green and the ferry to you.
Late nights, sweat, sweet words.
Held hands, steady eyes. Great Kills and park pools.
Party in the city, “Boom Boom Room” and sharpies on white t-shirts.
Your broken glasses, my extra tape. First kiss, “You’ll be my first mistake.”
Mornings in bed, awake to the door opening, keys on the nightstand, lips on my cheek.
First fight, no words spoken. Quiet tears shed, make up in the shower.
Hourly texts, birthday dinner and walk to Strand. I love you slips at midnight.
DC and West Virginia, near death on the highway, sunset kisses.
A late night in Autumn, no word from you since Cleveland, first break up.
3 days and 4 nights, you call nervous, I can feel my heart rip.
Folded paper, Alias and biscuits, poetry in your eyes, spare key on the table.
Wind shakes the ferry, I insist on a view, sorry pours from your heart.
Ache makes a home in my chest, longer silences, fewer texts.
Fear pushes us further, restraint slices our pride, nights are longer.
1 week and 2 days in an empty bed, reunion in yours with no sleep until October.
Silence and awkard conversation, more public meetings, second break up.
Heavy drinking, more tears, extended self questioning, photo booth memories.
Frantic phone call, your voice breaking, static and trust crack on the line.
You in my bed, curled up in blankets, saline on your cheek, rust in my veins.
Dinner with my mother and sister, knees shaking under the table, kisses on the subway.
Anniversary, I ask for dinner, you have plans, I tell you to pick up your things.
1 week of silence, 7 days of waiting, one letter, Alias for third break up.
18 days of drinking, several texts late at night, I love you remains intoxicated.
You never came for your things.
