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how many decembers until we realize there are junes in between

You looked so fierce under lamplight. The air bit; the salted ground swelled up at us. I walk
toward you. We don’t have time for things, only people, I want to say. You rub your thumb
into your palm, blink hard. Shuffle your feet. You always wear the same pair of shoes. We are
people, I want to say. You look at me with the same eyes that you have when it’s dark and we
are inside and you are searching for things you can feel but cannot touch. I shove my hands in
my pockets, casually, you can share mine. What kind of eyes do I have? I feel our year on my
shoulders like a heavy winter coat. I am asking, Will we still be you and me in a lifetime?

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