he says as it relates 
to a date 
of another first 
we’ve had. 

It reminds me of things 
I shouldn’t hold onto. 

It shouldn’t matter 
when I first noticed 
the way light hits his beard, 
or how his colors blend 
as in a Monet, 
only that I see them. 

It shouldn’t matter 
when those butterflies first flew 
from our insides; 
only that they fly every time. 

It shouldn’t matter 
the date of our birthdays; 
every day we exist 
should be celebrated. 
Our presence is a gift. 

Yet I die a little every time 
when it doesn’t matter. 
Details matter. 
And I love all of our details. 

Memories serve as my card catalog 
to pull out certain pages of our story 
at any point in time. 
The who, what, when, where, and how; 
all those details matter.  

If you want to know the song that played 
as we kissed on Christmas Eve, 
I’ve got it. 
If you want the song that played 
as we made love in my college apartment, 
I know that one, too.  
For when I hear those songs again, I set myself 
into that space, that moment, that Autumn afternoon 
as the sun set and we slipped quickly into the night. 

I have them all stored and ready to play, 
just say the word.