That day, freckles fell off your face.

That day, freckles fell off your face.

I swear it.

They were bungalows

Splatters

Hallways

Is this freaking you out yet?

Come to my spaghetti dinner.

I’ll have an invitation wrapped in fraught iron messes.   

What?

No, seriously.

Spaghetti. Everybody’s got to eat some time.

Afterwards, we can play a game.

Its called, find the freckle.

Here’s a hint:

walls and spots on walls.

But mostly spots.

You might find them under my fingernails.

You might scrap them from my dead cells.

you might smash them deeper into the river walk next year

because it sounds like a great place to be dying.

With you or with someone else

On a hotter than hell day.

Lets say, you will find them before me.

You staple them to your feet, never let their spotty eyes wonder. 

Lets say, I supposed you wanted to hold me to an explanation.

Sometime later, I learned you collected clocks because you collected clocks.

Sometime later I learned I threw away Band-Aids because you stopped keeping them.

We must have known it was your fault somehow.  

Spots are my fault you wanted to say. 

You stood directly in the 3 o’ clock wintering sun.

You must have forgotten your shadow lengthened by 2 inches.  

I still believe we are young.

We know everything.

You pulled your hair, twisting around my fingers mindlessly.

You and I

were simply standing.

Bodies and cells and shadows and spots and clocks and spaghetti dinners and bungalows and Band-Aids traveling that place where we first saw ourselves standing. How simple, how inviting. 

We waited for young to come to us.

I waited to know everything when I still knew everything.