a memory of our february evenings.

It was the oil slick of colors,

the bubbles floating in the air,

the way I felt a rustling deep in my stomach

while sitting next to her.

It was the air, so sharp and cold,

it was the stars, so bright they burned

into constellations marked deep in my mind

while sitting next to her.

Her words echoed on the rooftop,

both inconsequential and profound,

a reminder of how our wish for immortality

is really nowhere to be found.

So I'll sit here, next to her,

with all these bubbles in the air,

and I'll think of how we will be, and how we are,

Someplace, Somehow, Somewhere.