Don’t forget, I smell like bread,
yeast and garlic. Sometimes cloves.
Remember how sometimes you’d find me crying in bed,
hiding, but not very well, and when you asked
I would say “I don’t know why.”
Don’t forget how I hoarded my special blue pens,
drizzled honey raw with debris on everything,
and how we read together in bed at night,
lined up under blankets, sharing and stealing warmth.
Try to forget how sharp my voice could be,
and how often, and how loud.
Don’t forget me mowing the lawn in my pajamas.
Or my pink bathrobe, puffed out in the morning
when I come in from the coop, eggs in my pockets.
Remember when you made me toast
when I was sick, and when you washed the blood
down my legs, scared to hurt me, almost crying yourself,
after crashing our bikes. Don’t forget the wine
on my breath, hot and risen, as I lean in to kiss you goodnight,
and my hair sweeping across your arms,
a tickle, and fleeting.