On Being Where We've Been.

Do you remember how you used to rub your thumb against the inside of my wrist when you tried to calm me down? And the way your sheets smelled after we peeled oranges in bed and told each other about our earliest dreams, do you remember?

And the day you palmed my neck and pulled me in close, kissed me with your eyes open and a tattered, yellow letter in your back pocket. Later, I read your untidy words as you called me your cup of coffee, and drew me sitting outside of a sad, empty birdcage.

We spent an entire summer in our pajamas, too, and took turns blowing smoke rings up to the sky like little halos leaving Earth.

And then you wanted to paint your dresser pool blue, but once we dipped our hands into the can, we got carried away and made love together like two cold bluebirds swept up in the jet stream. And we never told anybody.

I didn't mind.

Do you ever think about the night we sprawled ourselves on my roof nursing a bottle of my dad's old bourbon and watched as three-thousand-year-old constellations illuminated the dark pieces of our limbs?

With unseasoned hands, we fell in love with every inch of oneanother.

Wasn't that the day you told me you liked the name Jason for a boy?
Sometimes, when I start my car up, there's a moment before the heater warms itself when the air smells like the days we used to spend together.

Do old street names remind you of us, like they do me?
I remember one afternoon we rolled down mossy hills, smoked our young, blooming worries away, and promised ourselves that we wouldn't wind up forgetting our lives together.

Do you remember?