I didn’t recognize his voice at first.
“Happy birthday,” he said.
felt the cobbles beneath our
feet the one day we held hands.
My birthday is one week exactly
from the anniversary of his dad’s death.
Every time he speaks I have synesthesia—
smell sunburn and sweet sweat of late afternoon,
hear Dave Matthews, oar slap on water,
feel finger on s pine. The day we kissed
he planted a seed in my chest. I’ve tried but
I’ve never managed to block the sun.