this drive is cobwebbed memories,

too many sticky summers to pick apart.
sometimes I forget the heat
is a time capsule: shrieking in the car
when the bass drops, holding your hands
on rollercoasters, the whump of a gaga ball
on the trampoline wall, flicked-paint
flecks on jean shorts (just to make you mad),
hilarity & headache & 3 hands of cards.
sometimes I forget
that your faces — 1, 2, 3 — used to look
exactly like me, back when I was
you. only I have always been first, to live,
to lose, & so of course I will be first 
to leave.