We rode through bone-frame houses,
beams like ribs not yet covered with skin.
I said we were on another planet.
You told me who you wanted to kiss.

On kiddie bikes
we looped the cul-de-sac until the air turned gold
and the rebar started looking like prophecy.
You had pockets full of lip gloss and smoke.
I had a portfolio with unicorns on it.

You let go first.
The handlebars, the fairy tale, the gasp.
That summer you rode ahead into
boys who smelled like menthols and sea salt.
I stayed behind to name the clouds
and memorize the scaffolding.

I imagined you trapped on Mars.
You offered me a cigarette. I said
I’d rather read Wuthering Heights again.

Recently I saw a girl who moved like you,
like she owned the place.
She laughed like you did: sharp,
like someone braking in reverse.

What are you doing today?
I hope it’s something real,
messy and ordinary and alive.