I think you robbed me of your summertime self,
where we could—instead of huddling
in the cold, your gloveless hands
inside my coat, curiously poking fingers
through the holes in my dress—
feel the rejuvenating heat and
bless the sailboats
or rest on hilltops watching water turn
from its textured blue-gray
into flaming magenta to match the sky,
putting on a spectacular kind of drag show.
For me, sunshine felt like
a trick, instead of a promise,
so that I even resented the cherry blossoms.
I never got to sit with you when the earth was warm,
and the air had cooled into after-sunset molecular legato.
My hair was never put into braids, off my neck,
and we never got to touch
until we were both covered in the kind
of sticky sweat that only summer bodies know,
and only cold showers can properly remedy.
I find myself trying to be both of us,
the practical romantic,
with plans and fears and deep loves
in tension with each other,
in compliment to one another—
instead of offering just me
ceaselessly to all of you—
and I keep my heart alive,
that palpitating, romanticizing idealist thing,
with my memory’s best guess of you.
When I speak to you again,
I discover how bad I am at being you.