One overcast day,

we’ll get married.

We’ll settle down,

have one, two, three

or more kids

running around our house

running up and over the roots

of other trees that settled down here.

They’ll take after you

and pick up nothing from me.

It’ll be like the day we met.

Behind my school,

in the woods

your thumb brushing my cheek.

Wires tracing the entropic sky

not a ray of sun in sight

you teach me better than anybody inside

what it feels like to be an adult.

I don’t know if you were tender or rough

it was a sensation I've never felt.

I understood then

what my friends

(at the time)

were bragging about.

You told me to never tell anybody.

You said I was your Jill.

I couldn’t speak for a week.

This is what couples do

and how those children are born.