wick

this is for my friends. 

my faraway loves. 

this is for the wreckage and the repairs, the rings we sewed in our socks, the nights that lay forgotten on the sidewalks, 
ice and black licorice.  

for the needs and radiobeans and other places with dark benches and sticky tables, our names etched in the edges, our rebellion, our carelessness, a legacy.  

pitchers and plastic cups on the kitchen floor, we were witches and we ruled our kingdom (a wooded garden, a secret path) with a flickering, faint grace. 

and what a world we made for ourselves there: dim lights and long mirrors, dimples and white teeth, closets shared, hallways, tears and pillows, fears held as close as consolations, consolations confused with cat eyes - coal, painted fingers, i knew we were beautiful and i felt safe in the confines of our beauty.

my memories are, perhaps, more resplendent than the reality of our academic bohemia, impoverished and riotous, i love them.  

and now in my big bed, i remember smaller blankets, books and spaces (budding hills and window sills) that would not have been the same without you.  

my beautiful babes, lovely, wild, co-op thieves, five lives in the library, stone steps and computer chess games. 
my girls, my throat tightens, i have more to say, but words are like stains: reminiscent, faded… 

i want so badly to tell you i love you, tell you i recall everything (like a child, bright eyes, bright colors), 
tell you not to forget me though the hollows unfold between us, 
to tell you you're my favorites and favorites don’t fade.