Because you liked starting sentences with conjunctions. Because you called me Louisiana when I told you how much I loved that song. Because you said that Venus meant to love but she wasn’t scared of war, that her hands were willing but her heart was wilting. Because you were a foreseeable kindness from the first time I met you, when you ate three grapefruits in one sitting until your hands were stained pink and you hummed along to Blister in the Sun on the way home. And I’ve pulled these words from the mud, they’re thick with meaning but thin in reason. I’ve tried to sort them out into some logical order but they always end up indifferent because I’m never as good with words as I like to believe. But it’s been weird since you left. I grew used to your hands, how you’d talk in circles when I cried. How we would hide under the stairs and watch your father pray because we thought that God couldn’t find us there and later we would speak to the river, hoped it would carry our secrets down, wash them away. I remember aching for the sun when you told me that we couldn’t unravel the night until we found a loose thread. Morning never came until the day you left, when your eyelids were heavy and you were all apologies. And It’s always hard as soon as June hits, when I think about the way we used to sit in the back of your truck at night and drink warm sodas, how easy it was to fold into your words and cup them under my chin. We would hide beneath the trees with mosquito bites on our ankles, itching for something bigger than us. Because you spit cherry pits and your hair was long. And I was sixteen and you promised to love me even if my colors changed, tongue-tied and trying to make sense of whatever I could get my hands on. I was all right angles and wrist bones, restless because I was stuck somewhere between your wild eyes and my mother’s quiet voice, but you told me I was pretty when I was unsure. And I remember the way you held my hand while the fog swallowed us whole, how the light broke off your shoulders that day we got lost and you didn’t even care, just turned up the radio and drove towards the sun. How we would flip coins for decisions we couldn’t make and for the moments neither of us wanted to break. And I remember how easy it was to love you from the very beginning because you were effortless and a quiet extraordinary. Because you burned gold in the sun and you had a weak grip but it was better than letting go. Because you continued to fascinate me even when the days were long and unmet. Because the first thing you asked me was my name, and then if I was ready to go.
no matter where you are the sun will rise there