Spring always makes me want to make the same mistakes again, so here’s to seasonal foolishness and budding poems.
You were the first to make me believe that you didn't want to go. When I unlatched the door to let you out and the new day in, you slammed it shut again. In the hallway you were so much larger than you'd been in the stripped bed whispering a few feet above our heads, where I would spend the next two days not sleeping alone. Your hands doubled in size to grip my hips to yours, to hold me in place. Because you left all the same, it didn't matter when you came back.