one week ago,
you were new like lemonade.
you were winter opening her clear blue eyes
and feeling cold was almost like feeling afraid
when we bicycled through them.
or sometimes at night we just walked together
and you were the streets
the criss-cross map of our lives,
as our thoughts built constellations above us
exploding a thousand years ago
and you were light
and you made me remember.
and you strung me between earth and sky
and you stitched me into the pattern that holds the world together
and it was sewn into our bellies
and written on the treehouse beams we climbed
and it said "love"
and it was a strange, handmade vine that grew in my garden
yellowed like paper, and sad.
and we laid down on the sidewalk next to it.

"i'm not sure i want this right now," s/he said.
and you were light