We Said Always

The fluorescent light above us went

and came back—I didn't read it as a sign.

Your cart wheel squeaked. We said the hey that's meant

to hold three years of nothing in one line.

And then you moved along. I stood there, reading

a shampoo label past the point of sense.

Keratin. Silk. Whatever keeps the bleeding

of split ends at bay. The past tense

of us sat in my chest: your driveway, heat,

two pinkies hooked around a serious

forever. We said always. Said we'd meet

in any dark. Said nothing delirious—

we meant it, in the way that children mean

the things they can't yet know they won't keep.

The light went steady. The whole aisle, clean

and loud with brightness. I put the bottle deep

into the shelf and didn't move.

Just stood there in the hum of all that white.

Trying to decide what I could prove

about the driveway, and the promise, and tonight.