If I knew one thing for sure when I met her, it was fear.

It was the thrill of standing too close to the fire and maybe even getting your thigh licked by a brave flame. 

She was thick and sweet and cut through easily

and I sharpened myself on her. 

She was salty caramel melted on the backseat in july and a 

cigarette left burning. 

She was something I had never seen before from the cathedral of my mother’s skirt, something glinting and wild. 

She was thirteen and tall for her age, ribs sticking out, too much mascara. 

She was the promise of poetry and the wet summer night, a promise to break my brittle egg.

If I found her again with her first wrinkles, life lines that are real and aren’t traced under blankets with flashlights but are still defined by a flippancy towards death-

would I tug her hand down to the river side where we once

both jumped in?