There was an evening the image of you and your interestingly arched feet and the curve of your nose swathed in my eye and my skin suddenly remembered the way you touched me, that first night my lips touched yours. The night heavy with humidity from the rain and the air cool when the breeze combed through my hair… I slowed my pace (hearing traces of distant sounds) and I stood at the tree, which no longer had my back against it. I could smell the wet grass. Quiet sort of love it was (if), between us — though the love shook my bones and rattled my head. I moved my body away to pick the dead flowers that nested deeply in my skin, inserting my fingers through dirt to pull out the roots, all so I can grow fresh ones (and I love running my fingers over the yellow buds that cover my skin now) — And I sat in the sun today with tea in the mason jar you left behind and which I never recycled and thought of you and the short time we existed desiring the other with a combination of heaviness and lightness lurking in my head and chest.