It really wasn't like a song, you said,

as your voice melted over the ice cubes in my iced tea.

You draped word after word upon my skin,

tracing the stars that had fallen there,

dusting away the singularities that stung

like needles and thread, trying to sew me back

together, to repair the damage that was wrought

by the years,

a patchwork quilt

The plastic chair seemed to curl to accommodate

my feelings, myself, and I, as I glanced at you

over the brim of my glass, the cold sinking

under my nails, under my flesh, to settle upon

my shoulders, whispers of some unknown poison

trying to echo into my mind; don't mind the hands,

they like to wander but they do make a point:

I wish I could hold your hands in mine

To let the heat of summer shimmer upon the ground

and chase us back inside, to the buzzing fans

and the radio on low, softly blasting pop songs

that ripple in the air

It really wasn't like a song, I can hear you say,

Again, repetition, a cycle, round and round;

Then, I hear my voice blossom,

what was it really like?

Sizzling sun drowns out your reply and I squint

upwards, my hand shadowing my face,

casting a strange pattern of lines upon my cheek