(We go home without talking, though the little girl hums strange songs to herself all the while.) You drive because I can’t, but I think you’d still be driving even if I could. I try to make a list of things that only I can do, only I can offer, but can’t come up with anything. I resort to my childhood methods of passing time during a car ride, watching the inspection decal on the windshield slice...

here, put up your palm

and I will lean against it

now, hold out your hand

and I will pour myself in

my gift to you: me, falling...

i think i just met the happiest person

in the world sometimes the wind ambles just right so a bicycle ride feels buoyant

sometimes the sun shines shyly so you feel it behind your fourth rib rather than on your forehead

sometimes you see such specific joy reflected on the frame of someone else and pilfer a bit for yourself

for me, happiness is slippery in the way silence is

self destructing as so...

a thumb slides over my life line

firm grasp with a vague promise

plum lacquered nails trace gleaming paper swords

i recall a different deck (i held the cards, once)

sprawled on a thinly carpeted dorm room floor memorizing

eons, eras, epochs gone by

you aced the exam, of course

i wasn’t enrolled in second semester honors ecology with you, but

I did harbor an affectionate grudge against the geol...