where receipts don't exist
and angels never ask
what anything cost.
you smell
like you just climbed out
of a swimming pool
in the middle
of an apartment complex.
chlorine and sunscreen.
the ordinary perfume
of being alive.
you are Fort Lauderdale.
you are six or seven summers.
you are Saturn,
too far away to blame
for any of this.
my favorite pair of jeans
still remembers your shape.
they've been to Montreal,
Manhattan,
parking lots after midnight,
cheap bars with expensive heartbreak.
every rip arrived honestly.
now they hang in the closet
like an old photograph,
frayed at the knees,
holding together
mostly out of habit.
sometimes I think
that's what love was.
not forever.
just a pair of dungarees
that fit perfectly
until they didn't.