I wanted to warn you about the snow
before you left; how it falls
like white ash on your eyelashes, holding
them down, like the weights
you used to bench down in Georgia for sport
but you never gave me the chance
and the truth is, I loved you
for who I thought you were
for who I saw in my dreams—
you, accompanied by love letters written in code.
You, accompanied by the smell of pine trees
and New York.
You, accompanied by the mountains that I think of
when I think “home.”
And the truth is, I only missed my mother
but you were just as warm
This article appears in February 2016.
