…and then, in the car, you would fog up the windows
with your delicate breath
smogging up the clear, vibrant sunset:

Hello, you would write, not sure who would respond,
and I would watch your ebony hair glow with gold
Midas had touched your soul from birth:

Then it would snow. It would hail blizzards on our house
which was nestled in the beating veins of Niskayuna,
down a corner no one would turn, other than us:

We would burrow in the frost.
Creatures of the wind who could only scream
against the panes of glass
that surround our living room.

When it all broke, when you learned to swing a punch, and when you learned to hide your tears, I followed suit. Some say we grew up too fast but we will clutch each other’s hands and blame only each other. Martyrs in the sun, silhouetted, we would face the gladiator ring and let ourselves wail.