you are my Sunset Friday.
the day our bridges collided and we discovered each other’s existence
i remember the hum of heat
and children splashing in the waves.
you asked me my favorite season
i said all of them
and you said summer.
we were silhouettes against red orange skies when
i whispered, i’ve never watched the Brady Bunch
so you decided that our First Date
would be in your living room
with our feet propped up
on the coffee table from Pottery Barn.
a single light bulb dangles from
the ceiling in your room, illuminating
the pirouetting shadows in the corners.
you come from the porches and backyards lining
43rd street and the abandoned parking lot
where sometimes music from your guitar spirals
into the night summer sky, like sweet smoke sailing from
the red chimney of Courante’s Bakery. i’ve watched
you grip cold, wrinkled hands, and ask
their owners the story behind each crease on their palm.
you wrote the lyrics to my name during a 104 degree fever.
you teach me vernacular that you conjure
by picking letters like pinpointing stars
and stringing them into a Constellation.
you use the Ace of Hearts as a bookmark.
in our minds we built a tree house
based on Greek architecture that carved itself
into the Corinthian wooden columns bestowed with lavish ornaments.
but we both insisted on more books, more shelves,
and our imaginations braved the metamorphosis
and when we walked inside our newly built antique book shop
we did not experience the wistful fog
that usually settles upon our crowns
when we smell the aroma of a million coffee-stained pages.
it was because we thought
we had Time to read every single one.
but the leaves started to turn red.
Yesterday you left me on a platform island
and as the train passed by,
i caught dimly lit snapshots of you
on the other side between the gaps.
your form flickered in the separation of subway cars.
i grasped at the echoes of your breathlessness
my fingers tangled with your adjectives
as you whispered, you are my Summer.