you wore jean shorts on a rainy tuesday in april
told me to meet you at our favorite bookstore
in coolidge corner —
i opened the door
and saw you standing by the coloring books —
your navy blue crewneck,
your curly q hair —
i felt about as rainy tuesday in april
as a person can possibly feel,
but i swore
you looked like
an early morning in june.
like a hello, sleepy mr. sun!
like a fresh journal page
a hot cup of coffee
a light summer breeze —
i know how badly you’ve missed boston
i know you feel most at home on city streets,
but to me —
you are a front porch 500 miles from here.
you are a gently swinging chair.
you are the view of a garden
in a yard with no fences.
you are the place i didn’t know
i was running to.
i ran to you in the bookstore.
you wrapped me in a hug and said,
“hey. what a day.”
i didn’t tell you at the time,
but seeing you made me feel
for the first time in so many days —
do you know how hard it is
to be the type of person
who makes people feel
you are the touch, the laugh, the breath
i didn’t know i needed.
i haven’t seen you since december
and the last few months have felt like
a never ending february.
i fucking hate february.
i hate depression.
i hate cancer.
the only thing I have loved
about these past few months
going to the bookstore with you
on this rainy tuesday in april —
has been not reading tolstoy
and pretending to read the bible
and buying a corny ass necklace
keep going —
i love how we kept going.
out the door, down the road,
how we ended up at the ice cream shop.
i ordered a scoop of
peanut butter cookies ‘n cream
in a sugar cone.
some weird sweet cream-espresso-affogato —
you are so weird.
i turned around
and caught you doing jazz steps
in line with a coffee ice cream concoction
in your hand —
you laughed, and ate a spoonful, and said,
“hey, man, sometimes you just gotta dance.”
you make me feel like dancing
on days when i cannot hear the music
over the pitter patter of raindrops
like a rooftop beat box —
you make me feel like boxing.
like punching life in the belly
for being such an asshole
you make me remember
that the key word in that sentence is
that we are not victims
(even though we are sort of victims).
that there will be a day
that doesn’t feel
like a rainy tuesday in april.
that there will be a day
when we are both
i don’t know when that day will be, but
you’ll meet me at our favorite bookstore in coolidge corner.
you’ll wait for me by the coloring books.
i’ll open the door
and find you dancing
in your favorite pair of jean shorts.