For you and the haying fields behind your house

Every October I think
of you, standing beside that creek,
with your rain boots and your bag and your hands,
holding onto me. 

Every October I read
your poems. I run your words
through my head on repeat. 

I think of that time
I put my hand in yours 
and you couldn't speak. 
How you stood there and
tried to breathe
and looked over at me
like I was the sky and you
were just opening your eyes. 

There are certain moments 
from which I will never recover. 
Swaying dizzy in your arms, laughing. 
Sitting on that bench in November, freezing.
Riding the bus next to you, our knees tucked up,
our thoughts tangled together under the seat.
Staying up at night, trying to collect
the pieces of you in a poem.

I have never stopped dreaming of you, never want to. 
I wake in the dark, 
feel the shiver of your smile on my spine, 
remember again that you are gone,
that I let you go. 

I have tried for three years to forget. 
I have tried to fall in love but there's nothing,
nothing I can make myself feel without knowing
you were the first.

I drove down your road the other day, 
just to see it,
just to stand in that field again  
and close my eyes 
and know I was as close
as I could ever get
to touching you again. 

I left and immediately had the urge to turn around. 
To go stand on your stoop and knock
on your door. I wanted to wait for the knob to turn, 
for you to see me there.
I wanted you to realize we got it all wrong. 

There are always second chances if we make them.
There is tomorrow, and next year,
and twenty from now when I could
run into you at some grocery store,
buying candied ginger and sunflowers. 

There will always be another if we write them. 
Tell me you still write them.