you breathed a song into my mouth,
a melody so beautiful that if he should hear it,
Bernstein would write off his symphonies
as nothing more than empty refrains.
You slept over that night,
drawing yourself into my arms
as we watched “Kid Gorgeous”
for the twenty-third time that summer.
I ran my fingers through your sleep-mussed hair,
marveling at the curve of your cheek,
and the tune that played in my head.
We fell asleep curled together
on that beat up old futon,
hearts and hands entwined.
I lied to you that night,
told you that you weren’t the first one
to cradle my cheek
and tentatively touch your lips to mine,
When you left the next morning,
in a hurry to return to the parents
you had forgotten to text,
you tucked my heart
into your coat pocket,
but left your melody behind.
I lied to you that night, but
maybe you lied too,
when you told me that you didn’t know
the tune I was humming,
or when you told your boyfriend
that he had no reason