Acer Sacharrum

I haven’t been to upstate New York since I was ten years old and we drove away from our house there without looking back.

Our friendship started with a story,

Really:

When we cradled our violins

And swept our bows through the air,

Giggling as we peeked into the holes

sunday nights are my own.

old music in the corners of my mind

pen scratches on paper, ten thousand poems

two hundred and seventy-two

little golden lights, 4 walls

that mirror my soul.

Once, we met. 

My hair was up, and the world was coated with snow,

and you

 talked to me with wide blue eyes

and a slippery smile, easy to fall into.