For Hannah and Charlie

Burning tongues with French classroom coffee,
laying in the schoolyard in cold gold sun, haloed
by leaves the same candy apple red as my hair,
we lived briefly beautiful. You kept on living
when my vanishing act lost all of its magic.
Now I dream of before: the gas station journeys,
the art room philosophy conversations, Snoopy
and Elliott Smith and pet photos in the group chat.
Those days we’d walk through ginkgos to the Co-Op,
and I still remember the bakery blueberry danish
you bought me, all those apple chais, staking out
the booth seats. Curled in my purple corduroy coat,
I’d marvel over your rainbow dye job, your cover
of Videotape by Radiohead. When I could still drive,
the first with a license, I’d sit in my car an hour early
to school, watching the sunrise creep over football field
guarded by a chain link fence vined with morning glories.
My windows were tinted so violet, it was like sinking
into a tranquil void. Yet somehow the city streetlights
to your house still shimmered after homecoming,
after the Fourth of July I was hit-and-run rear-ended,
after all those afterschool lingerings, after park days
and Halloween pumpkin gutting and music video making.
The way home was always singing Ann Don’t Cry.
Now I don’t sing anymore. I hover silently paralyzed
over this phone line, knowing you’d welcome me
anytime with love forever, knowing I could never
blink past the shame of this strange stunted goodbye.