The End of May

To Ash

Our bodies were sewn together under the fabric of the humid air, straggling behind the lines of sweat that marked our arms. It was probably three in the morning. You asked me what time it was, and spent the next three hours guessing. 

I woke up to you watching me sleep. 

Let's get out of here. You walked me home. Kiss me. You hugged me goodbye. 

I held a magnet of your face and pasted it to the door. You watched me do it, laughing away the stars. The sky was fogging up. It was morning already. 

I wanted to be in your arms again. And again. And again.

You kissed me for the first time in Brooklyn. In the middle of the streets. I laughed, then yelled at you. You had yet to meet my father. Does it surprise you to know how much he loves you?

A year later, you died. Papa was sitting with me in the car, sobbing as he drove. From Manhatten to Brooklyn. One thick stretch of road. Just like the kind we used to run through in the middle of the night. 

I don't know how to stay without you. 

It's gotten hotter since you left. Each day buzzes louder than the next. Pictures of your face dance around in my memories, and I am scared I'll forget you.

The summer air smells like you. And I see you in my dreams. Every time you kiss my face again. And again. And again.