i. You once told me of the large window near your bed. How a boy with wild hair placed his hands on the sill and jumped until he landed in your pillows – you two were tangled in blankets and love honey lights from his eyes lingering in your lungs because you breathed it all in. Choked on mouthfuls. I want to see you below the northern lights, he said to you that day. His fingers traced your skin, drew constellations over your freckles. ii. l picture your face – breathless, childlike, eyes smiling like crescent moons. when you two huddled close below the moonlight did the wind go quiet and still? Did you fall asleep because the world stops breaking when you’re with him? iii. Your words were dry syllables, harder than our cracked floorboards. you said: things change. you said: there’s no use pining. But you hurry to your couch every weekend, an old polaroid in your phone case. Romance films hum behind the tv-screen and I imagine you see his face in every kiss scene, hear his laugh in every hollywood smile, notice his glow in every sunset, not quite as bright as the northern lights he took you to those years ago.
