It's an eighty-degree day in May,
and the warmest breeze is blowing around me, and suddenly,
I'm brought back to you again. 

Always late. Sometimes, literally running.
Your dark curly hair tied behind your back.
Your sleeves pushed up to your elbows.

Your hands, covered with chalk and charcoal.
Squinting with your eyebrows pushed together.
Working out how to form shapes and lines.

I wanted to hold your problems,
and your joy,
and your hands.

If waiting longer could change our timing,
I'd stay in the sun,
longing for the breeze to return.