It all feels distant, when thinking of you,
like a watercolor spilt over with water
the bleeding and then
your bare feet up wooden stairs,
your car door closing at the curb of evening streets
to come home
I always knew from through the window
it was you.
the rented houses and apartments,
the roads we’ve wheeled over,
how our bodies curled and sprawled in sleep,
when watching Sunday movies,
when by the creek in so many seasons.
The things we’ve said-
all of them.
After six years,
how is it that you are so soon
mostly lost memories?
Though, not forgotten: the certain way
you would say
your spanish name- the one given to you in school
as a kid:
But not just Hidalgo-
HidAAHLLLgo. As though so happy to say it
every time, and you were.
The way you’d inspect each berry for mold
and then toss them
one by one, between inspections,
into your mouth.
These tiny portraits of you-
voice, face, the movement of your hands, the colors,
the way it felt to be next to you,
I’ll keep them in a back pocket
of old jeans I sometimes wear,
search for them
on days I need to feel close to you, again.
To know it all happened, once.
Some days I want to call you
just to hear you say
I want to sit beside you
as you eat berries.