Like Folk Songs

I remember the way you sounded at 3 am

when everyone else was asleep,

laptop like a lit candle against our legs.

I remember the first time I touched a telescope,

your hands aiming it up to a Midwestern sky,

and pretending I could see more than the dark.

I remember a brown silk ribbon

and chipped tooth meteorite,

footsteps in crisp snow

and the way your grandmother’s house smelled.

I remember a first love they would call by any other name.

I remember the first time you asked the question,

the way I should have answered, and the way that I did.

I remember, years later, reading the name you gave yourself

and trying it on my tongue, sounding out a single syllable

and wondering how half of my heart could

beat and become stranger

and be loved all the same.