Damn, did we chatterbox adorable.
All feeling fourteen and bulletproof.
I thought it would paint me shades of mope,
looking back on our giddy,
but it really just cemented extra heart
onto this unpaved highway.

Not the hope that we would once again
find solace in each others' sigh and steady,
but the kind of serial optimism that tells me
possibility is always renewable
for another season.

And oh, the seasons we compacted
into our glittery whirlwind.
We slow danced once for three minutes
going on a month.
I watched you paste up a photo album
with your eyes. Those eyes
were embers and flashlights.
They grafittied my palms with words
that will never wash off:

This.
Lover.
We.
Yes.
Ready.

Now whenever I applaud,
it sounds like your soft rasp.
Your leprechaun giggle.
Now when I pray, it feel like
reminder. It feels like signpost
saying, There will always be a light on.

This will never be a eulogy,
At best, it's a bedtime story,
a tuck-in, a chance to pull the covers
up to your chin, and turn down the light
as I fill us both up with fable
and storystuff.

All the ribbons and bows we exchanged
are still shoebox safe. I will watch
as you blossom into shades of everything.
It will be my favorite late night program.

Thank you for giving the map to my spine
and the oil for my rusty shoes.
Thank you for the lightning
and the sexy CPR.
But most of all, thank you
for knowing how to sand me down
when I feel the most jagged.

I have an elephant in my chest now,
thanks to you,
and I hear his memory
is impeccable.