In my mind, the spring we shared never stops.
The branches outside detonate into bouquets.
Your duvet turns green with kneestains and sweat.
We hold hands. Brighton divorces winter.
Everything is so bright it makes you grit
your teeth. You wake up sweating on the couch
and almost throw up in the bookstore. I
hold your head in the park.
Of course you’d go
home soon. Pollen glittered our eyes.
In the note left in my book, the letters shook
the same as our hands when we traded shells,
held them up in the breeze, deciding, Yes,
this one’s for you, to press over your ear until
its lone tide swells––crests, silences.