I remembered that.

I remembered those coral shorts, made soft
and pale from repeated washings.
With your knees up where you sat on the
ground, chin resting on those twin peaks.

I remembered that. For a minute, I closed my
eyes and saw and remembered that.
I barely remembered who you are because I don't need to.
I barely remember plenty of yous because I don't need to.

I can make up the spaces in between, fingering the
creased corner of a yellowed poster on a wall while
I watch you smoke on a fire escape.
The city breathes so loud behind you.

And maybe if I close my eyes again I might remember
three panels of deep red stained glass, gleaming with
summer sun. Or your face and your arm stretched out
towards a painting in a gallery.

Maybe I don't remember enough,
but that's your opinion.