do you?

do you remember the little mexican joint off Main Street? 

40 minutes past curfew, when you turned March into summer 

and the secrets were burning your tongue

so confessions fell off our shoulders.

there was snow on the ground, but my blood was warmer than the windshield.

the first time I sat shotgun in the same car where I left all my kisses.

do you remember the train?

I knew what you were thinking,

but I hid it under my jacket

so you wouldn't see the feelings tying our eyes together like strings.

do you remember the basement?

where your fabric gets caught under my fingertips 

and I'd rather watch your glance rotate around my face, 

avoiding the eyes and avoiding the eyes, 

and finally skimming the lips.

the place where time passes faster

and hands will never feel close enough.

do you remember my room?

because I remember yours.

the edge where you tie your shoes, next to the ceramic tile and a stack of boxes 

where you tuck your findings. 

There's a picture board where you paste your talents, 

and your cologne is on the dresser 

but your socks are on the floor.

I remember you.

I was barefoot in a dress 

and you were keeping me on my toes.

The boy I met past midnight in Baltimore, outside the laundromat

who kept finding me between hotel breakfasts and morning prayers.

You wrote me out on your windshield

and flowers kept showing up on my door;

anonymous admirers and heartbreak bouquets 

from the only people who know that 

flowers are my favorite.

do you remember me?

we closed our lips 

to make room for our futures,

but my kisses were in all your pockets and drawers

and our hearts grew down our sleeves.

do you remember me?

I loved you yesterday

and the day before

and tomorrow.

do you remember me?

I never left.