This is where you touched me, and left a heat spot
Lifetimes have passed between then and now.
I can pull only soft, loose memories from the morass, like how we pulled on our clothes in those still-dark mornings, haphazardly and in good faith.
Holding hands sleepily on the way to the car.
Brushing my croissant crumbs out the window as you turned onto the 87.
Some warm dawns when we opened the car roof and let the world rush in.
Waving to each other through the window of an accelerating train, morning after morning. Your dance moves before the train started. Suddenly it was March.
The hot, unwanted tears when you shrunk from my line of vision.
Other commuters looking away, embarrassed for me.
The screech of brakes: Menlo Park. Atherton. Redwood City. Taking shallow breaths in the thick recycled air. San Carlos. Belmont.
Exhales, or resignation.
I remember a bright, grey-skied morning at the station, the still-spindly trees fracturing the sky. The tautness before spring.
Whispering into each other’s sweatshirts on the platform.
Your hands over my ears as the train screamed in.
Your pulse underneath it all.