back in the summer

of ‘25, our toes pruned in the

tide as you held it to my ear:

your heartbeat 

syncopated with the waves 

your mother's briny

laughter when you introduce your

“friend” but you know 

that's not fucking true

cause i know those late july nights

where your callused fingers 

traced my adam’s apple didn’t 

end when we awoke & yet 

we closed our illicit eyes, mourning 

atop your twin-sized bed; enter

dying leaves, embalmed skies

homecoming came around but you

didn’t for you had met 

her & now you can dedicate 

your firstborn to grandma’s

smiling buddha, do tell her for me

that the fish is done steaming 

& to be careful of the 

pinbones but don't tell 

her that i’m still at 

your cul-de-sac waiting

for you to walk

back around, listening to 

this hollowed vessel

until i only hear 

the waves.