a tale in three parts

I.

that a purple balloon flew outside my window

and i caught the string between my teeth.

then the way that your eyes adjust to the dark,

when you're a little bit nervous,

but i can make you smile.

and you're afraid of spiders, and i of teeth,

but we can pretend we're living a domestic life.

bunk beds and comic books and

you don't eat your peas.

and i laugh when you drop your soda and

spill it all over the table, a sugary pool.

so then bring you back home,

cozy in the night air, enclosed.

five chairs, like you belong, until it's time to go.

II.

that your interests are my interests,

that mine are yours, that we're the same except for some.

except for weddings and apartments and moving boxes.

except for being capable and fun and drunk.

except for not being a child in an adult's skin, like me,

like me, like me.

except we pretend we're kids again anyway,

and i wear a fairy skirt and clip colored pins to my bag.

sometimes i'm anyone because anyone is someone.

III.

that i tell you mundane secrets in the car,

and we scatter across main street like skipping stones,

past candy stores and fuzzy hats and sunglasses for kids.

and the first ride's not enough,

so we go faster.

and there are paint cans and beaded beauties,

and spaceship memories like unheld hands,

because i've been here before.

i didn't get dizzy this time, no one to press me too close.

it didn't rain,

and i didn't miss the memories.

then you drove me home in silence,

with the music just a little too loud.

i lost a pin, i walked in circles, and

some part of me is still screaming, waiting to hit the ground.