I’ve run out of ways to tell you I love you, so I’ll just say this:

you are the smell of the fresh mint growing

between the porch steps of my grandmother’s backyard

you make me feel the jitters of the first warm rain of 

spring, the first blizzard of December, the first leaf to turn crimson

you are the lake that was home to 

streaky headlights and our first nervous kiss

you are the pond that was home to tiny fish just fast enough to slip 

between my fingers as they raked across the surface

with the smell of bug-spray and sunscreen emitting from 

the sweat beads on both our hairlines 

I want to exist in these places, spread myself across 

them until my skin becomes translucent 

leave pieces of myself under the sand, in the glovebox, 

by the hair in the corner of our cinderblock room

each one like breadcrumbs to follow

but no way to retrace my steps without landing at your feet