This isn’t a poem about love. This isn’t about how I am or was or could be in love with you. It isn’t a naïve idealism of how I want to be with you forever (the giddy excitement before you arrived) or a self-indulgent whining elegy (the deadened ache when you left). And it isn’t pointless sentimentalities like a first kiss, you sleeping beside me, or reading Pablo Neruda together. This poem isn’t about that. It’s about the morning when we climbed the hill and you, for a moment, stood on the edge, with the brightest sunlight I’d seen all week shining down on you from a little patch of blue while the rest of the world was grey.
