In February
You keep green apples and orange on the desk in your room.
Pictures of me, and me and you, hang from the shelves
like prayer flags.
Your brother's portrait of Bush and Hitler rests on the wall next to a poster of the Milky Way.
We sit squeezed into your $10 green chair, whose back is pressed to the window,
laughing and eating falafel with sriracha.
You like to propose ridiculous ideas just to see my "in disbelief" face.
I always end up giggling
and with my fingers in your hair.
Thank you for nights like these in February,
when only brief snatches of the night sky can be chanced
because the cold makes your eyes water,
and somehow it's colder looking up.
My legs are little, and yours are long.
They fit together so well, like matches in a book,
at night and when we wake.
Now I know you don't like the smell of flowers,
and I'll remember that.
One more kiss, before I go,
before I hitch the miles back to a place
where we've loved many times before.
I'll think of you, of the apples,
of the oranges, of the prayer flag pictures,
of your hair tucked behind your ear,
of your distaste for the scent of flowers,
and of the many small wonders you inhabit.