under the metal canopy that pinged needle rain,
and above the splintered wood that winced as my feet stuttered staccato
on the cracking varnish.
I thumbed the zipper of the jacket he tossed to me when the rain began.
I was cold and it felt familiar
him giving me his jacket.
We could be there again, is what I’d said to him, if he wanted
Saying (almost) everything. We could
r e a c h
When he met my parents he filled my father’s hand with sweat and
helped slide the faceless watch down my mother’s wrist so
she would hug him one second longer
When I met his, I saw the humor between his mother’s clenched teeth
I laughed as I held his thick fingers then
apologized that the their cat’s fur made me sneeze
onto their couch
But now, on this blistered porch
He shook his head.
slow like yeast in heat
And we were there again.
choking on the words
that would have let us love.
Jeannie is 22-year-old a lover of dogs, poorly timed high fives, and honest humans. She is always looking for ways the mind can connect with the voice in order to highlight individual and shared experiences.