we lay for two hours,
half smiles hidden underneath
a few light blankets
holding flashlights to our faces.

i felt like maybe i should 
have brought comic books. 

startlingly bright against the
muted dark around us, 
i’m glad you remembered flashlights.
they were the salty glare 
my snail eyes had always
yearned for. 

did you laugh when i told 
those stupid jokes? because 
i wasn’t paying attention, 
my eyes were always tired.
i felt stuck in half 
dreaming contentment,
like grandma in the after
school special.

i lay my whole life, 
stretched across the bathroom floor
each night,
cold tile pressed against my face,
lulled asleep as our old furnace
shook to life below me.

you called to talk
about your mom.

dry heat gusted in
my eyes teared up and
your voice cracked.
i heard it, i know you don’t
like to think so but
i heard it.

did you feel that shock of life,
that slippery broken egg feeling
in the back of your head? because
you breathed real fast just then.

the tree in my backyard grew 
white flowers and i picked some 
but they wilted before i could reach
the back door.