A Letter to You,

Surrounded by a crowd I remember the day
we broke away from one and rushed
into another, in those lengthening days.
With a dead phone, some cash, and the clothes on our back
in the beginnings of summer:

the start of the end of all that we were. My hair,
long and stifling in the heat was stuck to my back
and I can’t remember if yours was really golden at the ends
or dyed by my adoring eyes as it brushed
against my arms. A reminder, a reassurance, a rush.

Do you remember when we wove in and out
of shops about the time street lights turned on? I thought
we could live in their glow but didn’t know
they would slowly flicker out like us— unaware,
we eased down those city streets
and into windows we peeked
as the sun dozed off and everyone else woke up. So we stayed

awake with them. I spent my very last crumpled dollar
at that bakery our eyes missed the first few times,
tucked between single-story clothes shops. We took
shared bites of a rice cake, powder on your mouth,
powder on mine but that was before we stood outside

the market and you took me by surprise
with the gift you gave my lips so please,
Please say you remember that. Or at least
the ghost of our hands together.
That love song I hummed, even if only in remnants.  

Train stations are bittersweet.
That’s where we had to meet
the rest of our friends and face reality in the form of harsh
fluorescent lights, but before home, your head on my shoulder
was one more gift, though you ended up taking it back.
The warmth of that day hasn’t even faded from the air,
yet you already have. Do you remember these things?
Please, say you remember.