Some of these things
i’ll forget with time -
small heartbreaks
and certain bouts of stage fright.
but the way you like your door left open,
a crack, maybe 3 inches,
or the pattern you rub your head in
when you take your hat off,
they’ll always stick -
indelible and unnameable.

when i wake up in the middle of the night
in my new room with no air, where the heat doesn’t
rise but stays trapped by my bedside,
i start to trace the outline of a tea saucer
crowded with chilled orange slices.
i’ll pretend that you’ve just
found me after dinner,
nearly satiated but not quite,
and have come with a familiar offering
and a wish for my sweet dreams

time passes, resistant to the white knuckle grip i
have on these old stories,
and i find it harder and harder
to remember your favorite callow questions of mine.
what language do you dream in?
why does the moon follow us when we’re driving?
how many times do you think we’ve met, and will
meet again, again and again?

i understand that my first love
won’t be the person who loved me most -
they’ll turn off all the kitchen lights
before bed when i like to leave one on -
and they won’t bend to little changes,
but we’ll be happy together
apart, i’ll try and remember which side of the house
we used to watch the sunset from.