I remember when you once ate a whole croissant and never offered me a bite.
I remember when you left black marks the width of your spread legs that never went away. I remember when writing something like that wouldn’t seem so odd.
Do you remember the bench? Eating olives and cheese?
Do you remember not knowing me at all and feeling as though you did?
Did you forget how vulnerable we would be? Did you forget how hard this all can be?
Did you forget what you’re capable of? Do you need to be reminded.
Do you need to be reminded that a friend is more than a night, but also less than a day.
Did you remember to tilt your head and poke your nose in a dolphin-like way to free you from the net?
You know what a friend to a sailor is? A gust of wind.
You know what a friend to a man with cake? A glass of milk.
You know what a friend to a five year old boy? A little dog purchased at a hospital, where he went to visit his grandma that he will never see again, and the night before you sang him a song about a dog named Blue — that lived a long life, died, and got lowered into the ground with links of chain — and he cried all night and welts became his cheeks and he sees this dog at the hospital and decides his name is “Blue.”
Do you remember when you said I love you?
I remember it made the seasons change.