A voice that’s tinted with the hint of memory.
I can hear myself not say the words, I can
taste the salt of the tears you would not cry.
And our intentions are chalk-drawn on
Back in the days when we lost ourselves along
the cold brick walls of apartment buildings in
alleyways with garbage decorating the floor—
And outside you stepped in soft mud and
lifted me in the air.
I can still remember the way your laughter felt,
tickling through my hair.