We fell, when fall became evening dew and sweaters,
sipping your mother’s tea to R&B inside.
School became an afterthought for our nights,
balancing bottles of beer on our knees
as I type out essays on crossed legs on your floor,
and you on your bed, strumming your ukulele.
We eavesdropped on the neighbors, the crickets that sang in the stairway,
routining together, behind closed doors
until one night I grabbed your shoulders, you whisked me underneath
then kicked the covers off the sheets,
let them lie there in the winter.

So we had a selfish nine months together.
the feeling when your roommate asked where you always were, after mine left
but we knew they all knew.

We ate sandwiches on mossy rock, scaled waterfalls and beaches,
zipped across concrete channels in our metal boats,
to warm beds in the summer, like tired migrants,
we adjusted our eyes: yours on bright fires and summer,
mine on the blues and blacks of the unknown, and the impeding fall.

I know we loved and we lost,
the gamble when I let you crawl in my bed, wrap your arms around me,
I cried, wrote poems that you never knew were about you.
I had to worry about my career, you had your mother and your friends.
We never would have made it, back then, I
couldn’t care when you held me tight, felt your beard pressed against my neck
in silence, in busy houses, cities, dorms.

It played out, like the song my best friend’s band made,
breaking our hearts too soon, detachment to eventually become
a starched suit with no wedding band, a free soul in a greener city,
to leave footprints on other hearts and roads, miss each other on airplanes,
adults growing up to become adults that we thought we were going to be,
but part of me still lives on in that cramped apartment room,
sitting on the carpet talking about our dreams.


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