The crimson threaded
Buttermilk cotton
Billowed and rested against
The splintery rungs-

The work of your strong hands.

You'd touched them,
And me,

And you stood above me,
Looking out at the view
With your palms on your hips.

I memorized the bottoms of your black sneakers
Through the slits of the flats.

I admired you

In your worn out
Light blue Levis
With the holes in the knees,
And the stains
On the pockets.

You were caked with dirt;
It coated your fingernails-


And I kissed them.

I strung
Twinkle lights
And mini lanters for decoration;

You fell in love with me.

You read me poetry,

You kissed my forehead;


Back when
The north was as sweet
As the honey in
Our tea;

Back before
The melancholy
Sweeping lines

Between

Aching and apathy.