We have written thousands of poems, not too many of which said “we”.

But we love like children do, tiny hands grasping one another’s hands because even at a young age, we knew people slip faster than sand.

We wonder about our memories then. When we loved more people than the memories we had of them. We can’t remember them now, with our palms unfurled. But the water can,

And we are bodies of water, love recycled in convection currents and dropped somewhere else.

You cry, and I realize my arms are not enough to bail all the no-good, very bad, days you will ever have. I cling to you from two bedrooms down the hall as I pretend I can siphon your sorrows away and make the going not so tough.

We proffer sorry’s, and it is the way we say “I love you”. We grow bouquets of peonies, instant ramen, and sad eyes by the lost windowsills, because roses have thorns and we hurt one another enough.