He held my hand, silently promising with his ten thousand ladies that our kisses meant something. His lips raced for comfort. I think they found it somewhere between my earlobe and collarbone—between the fear of letting anyone get too close, and the wish for someone to want to.

He kissed the thighs of the wounded with a gaze that made me wonder if men knew how to fake those eyes.

He lived on my favorite side of the seesaw and did almost everything with a joke and a smile. Around 2 a.m. he said he could feel my heartbeat. I wonder if by breakfast the next morning it was a lie.

Give me one small square of an afternoon for that patchwork quilt I wished we had when the grass welcomed our knees and the mosquitoes welcomed everything. Oh sir, I must ask, with a tree growing out of my chest—why me?