I first loved you when the world was

blooming like words on lips

and the sun shone so bright

that we would read the morning paper

until eight at night, beneath the oak.

 

by the time we had slipped

into our summertime skin

I’m sure you loved me too

though you never said it

(and I didn’t tell you either).

 

when the leaves changed

you wore your autumn sweater

and I was a cotton-white ghost

who fed you bowls of pasta and bruised apples

on the rooftop terrace.

 

everything was grey in january,

our words froze in midair

before they froze in our throats

maybe because that’s just what happens

maybe because we were waiting for the thaw.