last thing, before you go.

It's 11:08am and it's too soon to miss you.

The hours are thinning out,

and people are waiting on my washy replies,

but I'm keeping my tear-stained sentences between me and you.

Me and you.

You and I.

Everyone's watching as we untangle our arms,

put our legs and limbs back into their sockets,

to become ours again.

I lent my hands to your chest

and my eyes belong to your lips,

because it's safe there.

Because my secrets are secrets when they're wrapped between your fingers.

Because your fingers feel safe between mine.

But the hours are thinning out, darling,

and we're still dancing in the kitchen to Ingrid and James Vincent,

lost somewhere between August 2nd and the movie theater,

and turning June 17th into just another day.

And we're still talking about which pillows,

and trying to decide which of God's words are going to make it to our hearts.

I choose all of them.

And all of you.

Don't forget me out there.

Don't forget the tangled hair and locked lips,

or the way the fabric feels when it's in our wrangled hands.

Don't forget the boyish laughs,

and think of me when the city turns their lights on.

Think of me in English

and Spanish

and the 'I love you's that crossed their borders.

Forget the hours that turned us into lovers,

and the dresses I wore,

and the pictures we took.

Remember me.

Shotgun rider,

too scared to speak on May 19.

Too happy to cry on November 30.

Because I remember you.

April baby,

the boy who loved Jackie,

but wouldn't kiss her on the footsteps of her favorite city.

The boy with the loud music

and the little white car at the base of the house,

who made movies impossible,

and bed times irrelevant.

I remember you.

Dark-haired, shoe lover,

with a birthday cake lit by 9000 wishes.

The boy who caught fire in March

and became December's best idea.

I remember those eyes.

those low eyes.

those adventure eyes,

those better-than-broken eyes.

And if you remember mine,

the wavelengths of your breath will always be home.

You will always be home.

So keep my limbs.

Take my twisted arms and rough hands,

and keep all the parts of me I couldn't untangle from you.

I wrote our adventures on my palms

and our solutions on my shoulders.

So keep them.

And keep me.