Along with the hoodie I bought (that I will never wear)
were the tickets to that concert
you know, the one I will never
go to or even hear. Just like that other
concert we went to, when the sound
covered our ears as if wax was poured
into every crevice, and we could see
the rain and the smiling faces, and the
lightning told us it was wet, but the thunder
didn't even whisper a warning.

Do you remember that winter that
befriended summer and we took videos
of them having a snowball fight in
the sunlight, but the snowball
was melting and we looked at each
other and laughed?

Do you remember that time
we laughed so much that we
weren't really sure what was happening?
But when we found out we panicked
even though we knew by looking
at the ground that the grass grew
and dew danced on the wings of
the trees like a fallen angel trying
to return to happier times, before
the post-traumatic stress disorder
brought back memories of gunfire,
explosions, and the sound of a fly
slowly landing onto my glass as
I pretended I didn't see it and drank
anyway, knowing that it would fly away.

Do you remember the look
in your eyes as I told you that
I loved you? I watched my words
spread through your body as you
lay there, an experiment. And
when it worked you put on your
white gloves and brushed against
my hand, telling me that the leaves
won't fall this time. I believed you
and I still do.

I don't remember, however,
that time we painted the sky
using only crayons and a
jagged piece of paper. And
I don't remember the day
we went into our caccoons,
but I remember coming out
reborn, with only your name
stuck to the roof of my mouth.
And when I tried getting it out,
I looked at the sky.

I'll never forget the texture
of the sky that day, and the
moonless sky I prayed to
because
without the moon I don't
know how to get home.