what if

we could go back, to the infinite
dark through the windshield when we’d
sit in my car for hours, clicking our
laughter together, finding a safe space
in the suburb of surface tension.
what if we returned to those hallways
passing notes between classes
filled to the brim with our own
brand of saccharine, our
exclamation mark years spent
exchanging lyrics to imogen heap
and the fray. what if we could have
seen what was coming. what if we’d
known how to language it.
what if we stayed seated on your
piano bench as you taught me how to
conjure the opening chords to vienna,
the only song i’ve ever played since
and would choose to pull
out at a baby shower years later to the
shock of my mother, whose family could
never afford a piano. what if we could
go back and fill the spaces where our
only-a-few-times-in-a-life bond was
forming, supplement it with a developed
frontal lobe, communication skills
years beyond what we had, and the
insight on what conversations
are important– the kind you only gain when
you start to lose people. do you think 17 and
14 year olds would hold this knowledge like sand.
what if we could do it again, at least
that last chapter, the one that dissolved
the bones of us like acid. what if we went back
to the piano bench, what if we’d
sung along to each chord,

there’s really no way to reach me
there’s really no way to reach me
there’s really no way to reach me
‘cuz I’m already gone

and I’d looked at you,
brought to mind the
downpour, the tire
marks, the ditch, caressed
the fourth wall and said,
“years from now,
this song will be about you.“