What I had said about the mountains,
At my window.
About how the Ever-Greens they bear,
Stand up like small hairs,
I want to remember,
What I’d thought to myself about the clouds,
Outside my door.
How sometimes like oil paints they glide across the sky,
Like cool milk clouds in spiced chai,
In a porcelain cup.
I cannot remember,
What I told myself about us,
Like we were.
Something about how you smelled like Ever-Green mountains,
And our kisses were like clouds and moved like frothy fountains.
Light and volatile.
I wish you could remember,
What you had said that day about the oak tree,
Growing old by the porch.
How it’s winter-barren branches, bent but not broken,
Bore buds that would flower like spring upon our passion unspoken,
Once you’ve forgotten.