Every day the damp air knocks the wind out of me. We were a late winter bloom. Something magnetic in the air says yes, says I wanted to be kept, says you should've known. If I had a lime green taffy it would taste like the first time I wanted to kiss you, the first time I was sure of it. I took to talking to brown bottles of wheat ale, and they don't laugh at my jokes. They taste like you, metallic and chilled. They smell like the yawning blue dawn. If I had enough of them to clank together, they'd be the space heater warming my cheeks. If I had enough of them I would find this all very hilarious.
Last year my dad said, "this is your year." Year of running and lunatic cackles. I drew a line of dark purple pastel down the county; it separates the midnight from all the ground we stood on. It makes iridescent all the snow I brushed off my boots. I did silly things. I lived and died, but I did alright. I loved and left, but that's alright.
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