The Hours

Back when your hair was long
we used to lay under the goalposts
alongside discarded mouthguards,
rusty pyramid spikes, and drained Juul pods
and gaze into the swirling cosmos.

I was the motormouth—the loud, excited
fool who always had something to say
but nothing to tell. You never did talk much.
You’d lie there peacefully, in silent wisdom.

Sometimes when the smoke cleared enough
we really lost ourselves in the night sky.
Once, it stretched all the way down
to the shabby AstroTurf and kissed you on the forehead,
and that glowing silver insignia took weeks
to fade. I always knew you had something
different, something special.

Eventually I would help you up
and we’d squeeze through the gap in the chain link fence
and walk through the dark blue back to
my Subaru. I would drop you off a block away
and watch you go, and squint until the night
enveloped your figure.

Don’t you remember?
I’d give anything to get one of those nights back,
but if I had one, I’d give it to you, I think,
so you might see yourself through my eyes.