I remember you from the ground up. We
were smaller then, faces washed, eager to please,
sure that the world would hold us. You came to life
beneath my feet, and I swallowed the breath you had held
for so long before you knew to exhale.
Others knew you, but they were not in my view
and your eyes blinkered with mine. We grew together,
sinned, were forgiven; tore apart, mended each other,
burned and were broken.
My others passed. Your others passed. We stayed.
I don’t know you now, but I dream of you
and when the doors close, I know you wait in the dark.