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Tell me about your Saturdays

and how you lost them

playing tag with summer shadows

in the lemonade and the ice cubes

in the attics and the cupboards you hid in

and in the backyards

where you stretched time to arm’s length.

Tell me about your first kiss

and how we should never be allowed to

touch before we know the meaning of infinity

and more importantly

how braces hurt when connected

like two magnets that can’t get enough

of one another.

[You wind chill

You unbent sunbeam]

Tell me about the first time

I hurt you

how it stung like something new

like your first bug bite

or bee sting

or your first failed test.

Tell me about how I’ve failed you

But also about how I loved you

and if I did it hard enough

In bookstores

and coffee shops

and car rides

and late nights

while squeezing eyes shut for wishing stars

and hoping

to be something you’re proud of.

Are you proud of me?

Tell me about that too.



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