when asked if I trusted you, I always said yes

He was once a small and soft baby, he was once a collection of cells.

He used to smell like cedar wood and smoke.

I was in love with the curve of his jaw, his stubble would turn my chin red.

The day after she told me, I chose the floor.
I was mad at my own disassembled state,
but between falling apart or pretending I wasn't,
I chose the realness of melting and said

Look, I understand,
the world has its plans, but I had plans of my own.

I know we are all familiar with the ways loss turns our mouths

into question marks, our hands into.

His mom kicked him out of the car. She said get out of my car, get out, find your own way home. Fourteen, he already had a beard, the older kids asked him to buy beer. Fifteen, he waited until the play had closed before running away. Sixteen, on the road, was it, was any of it true?

He used to tell me stories.
When asked if I trusted him, I always said yes.

Life becomes memories becomes narrative, becomes the stories we tell.

Just like love letters are only paper, burning in the dark.

It all gets smaller and smaller
the farther away you look at it.