I.
I remember swallowing a lump in my throat
you fiddling with your hands in the chair next to me.
We were nervous energy, unrefined
and just waiting to crash and burn.
Caffeine capillaries
and bloodshot eyes,
we knew our late night and early morning
with fingertips tapping at keyboards numbly.
That lump melted away as the sun shone down
from behind us, warm and inviting.
I knew it was fine.

II.
I remember clearing my throat in your car.
I swallowed hard to forget.
You laughed,
spindly fingers turning the knob on the car radio
to full blast
as you whipped down the straight away,
windows down,
and me yelling.
You screamed along,
lyrics visceral and raw.
I could feel your form
breathe in the sunbeams
and you lit up
with the light and fire
of a thousand stars in broad daylight.

III.
I loved you.

IV.
I remember driving in the rain,
my eyelids heavy.
Iced tea bellies
and thrifted wares,
our wallets were lighter
but our memories bigger.
I had my hand in yours
and it was warm and comforting.
I was shivering and you told me
to grab your jacket from the back
and I curled into that worn denim
and cherished it.
We got home too fast.

V.
I loved you.

VI.
It’s hard to swallow
and my head is reeling.
It’s fuzzy and fleeting,
drifting from my field of vision
like your dainty dandelion wishes.
Fleeting.
That’s how I’d describe it.
It was raining again as we drove.
I remember us arguing.

VII.
The end is hard to swallow.
I loved you.
But we gave up.