Just like you to show up after so long,
cupping our memories in your
hammock hands - the house with
two kitchens, thin shoots growing
on the sill, bags of horseshit in a
shopping cart, the patch of grass
where I sat, head between my knees,
trying not to decant breakfast
onto my shoes. How I loved you then -
you who mourned every dead deer
between Philly and Pittsburgh,
met the mouths of other men
on the dance floor, refused
to set foot on a plane,
now posting pictures
of your wife and kids
laughing in Greece
because tickets were cheap.
Before you owned land and
expensive bikes, before you held
the space between us as water
in your palms, I leaned in to
see your face, young and possible,
not yet a memory of itself
in the shadow of backyard trees.
You finally text me back
Photo © Animesh Srivastava. All rights reserved.
