Whenever I want to remember a time
when love was simpler, I think of you.
When love didn’t mean getting undressed or
doing drugs, when love was as simple as you
walking me home, with my hand in yours, and
you kiss me on the porch as we bid goodbye.
I have loved a handful of men after you.
But I find myself trying to remember
the exact color of your eyes and
what it felt like to be pure again.