i remember
i remember seeing the woman who cleaned
the other side of your office window as i told
you about the blackness
that gnaws at my lungs night after night.
there is silence that we sit on
minute by minute
moment to moment
I say nothing but wait.
i remember the heaving sadness
My arms clinging to my legs as my
grandfathers memory tugged at me, painfully.
i search for words not finding anything
but dirt and metal on the tip of my tongue.
i remember you
like the mother i wish i had
the friend i wanted back.
walking
your heels click against the floor
and my shoes drag from the exhaustion
hanging onto me like butterfingers on monkey bars.
i remember
the latte that didn't taste like a latte
the genuine laugh
the hope
the hope
i’ll remember
you.