That summer was a wherewithal.
I remember flames of water like the Indian Ocean and two-bit invites to the neighborhood you called happening.
Or you, or after accumulation, or besides the brunt of sprung facts that seemed so dressed down (or between). A fretted message so long a time coming.
The numbers all played together and feel so good because you feel so good and I feel enough to say “enough”.
It could have just been the shapes of things we drew in the fake sand, the names we placed there.
And the stones, as markers, as pasts long since past.
These little things, exactly.
