When he asked me
if I’d been in love before,
I hesitated. I was, in that moment, having the most magical love
with the city we were in. There was something about the way the white lights
tickled my skin while
the wind sucked the music
out from our radio and
into the streets; I found so much
in the messy collisions I had
with strangers living their own stories,
becoming just a sentence in mine; the strange, quiet heaviness of quirky
coffee shops filled with steam and lovers
enjoying each other’s company
aroused me more than the coffee ever could; but my favorite places would always be
the gravel parking lots
tucked away from all of the noise,
raw but ready to be filled.
And you could say that he started
to make me feel the same way.
I could weave together layers of poetry
about the way his face smiles when
we’re in his room
and I’m scratching his back.
I lived for adventures,
so he thought of me in every sunrise.
He spent his days swimming,
so I thought of him in every breath.