October 26th

It was the kind of night we kept in mason jars as children
fireflies and quick feet
together on the green grass
we thought
we'd never fade
if the day couldn't catch us, always
like his fingers used to run through my hair
in a time that ticks away
somewhere between the milk and bread isles
at the bodega where we pretend not to know each other
sometimes I catch him
and I think of the way the grass clung to his hair
in the morning
we are stars

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