The first time I held your hand
the snowy breeze of winter
weaved through your long,
flowy hair
and you laughed,
your breath fogging up
it smelled like the piece
of peppermint gum
you chewed that day,
and the blocky weight in my chest
from earlier,
went from ice to mist to nothing
and grew quiet.
Wisps of smoke flew by,
and you scrunched your nose
at the smell of cigarettes
you covered up your face
with the sleeve of your jacket,
and I smiled,
and you grinned,
reaching into the left pocket
of your jacket,
and from it, you pulled out,
wrapped in silvery, shiny foil,
a small, thin, rectangular piece
of peppermint gum.
You held it out to me,
so I reached for the piece
of peppermint gum
and my fingers found yours,
interlocked,
and I think we stayed there,
hand in hand for way longer
than we were supposed to
but you didn’t say a word,
and the silence felt so perfect
so neither did I.
Time stood still,
frozen like the pine cones
scattered on the gravel floor,
until the recess bell rang,
and I didn’t notice
until I got home, and realized
I never took the piece
of peppermint gum
you offered me that day,
but I think it was okay
because I still tasted it
in the hazy air, lingering, and for hours and hours,
I stood there, trying
to breathe it all in.