I want to go back to that night in Garden II,
to the hour after midnight where we sat
inches apart, on bright white bench slats,
then ran down the Lawn, staring at stars,
laughing at couples stumble-walking home.
Later, the worn plastic leather of lounge chairs
of the Kent dorm lounge held me close when you
were too afraid to. I did not know you—I sat
across from you and knew I wanted to. I wanted
to trace lines in the sky to count the stars, touch your hand
and trace lines there, too. Take me back
to that night, when I was aching but not undone,
to when paper and pen were not needed,
to when ink meant nothing, words not yet broken in me,
when your words alone were enough.