131.

fast forward four years, and there are still
dark-haired moments when some slight girl walks by
and I can see your shadow in the curve of her waist
and I keep a numbered list of you in my pocket, still
unfolding it to read the things I remember:

1) you tasted the way wine does
without the hangover, until
a year or so later

2) I let you tug my arms around
crowded rooms, through hallways
your hands carrying mine
pulling me like a kite and laughing

3) you called me meadow-words
like hummingbird and honeybee
before you flew away

and the list goes on from there.

sometimes I wonder whether I wasn't
born with a chest full of paper hearts:
a few for me to keep,
a few more to hand out here and there
and some of them have been ripped along the way
and some have dissolved in rain puddles
or been tossed into waste baskets

but one of them is still
in some old jeans-pocket of yours
in the back of your closet somewhere