We held on like waltzers and spun until springtime came.
And I have the photograph, but what are we left with?
Not the nights of hookah smoke,
or the summer months we washed the sheets four times a week,
nor that time at the market, when you confused plums with grapes and your tongue swelled,
nor when the fridge broke and we put all our food in the snow.
What was it? A month like that? Fishing out pasta from newly fallen flakes.
We told ourselves it tasted better.
That cabin is gone too, the time you fell and bled from your knee, saying it’s fine, it’s fine, and then passing out before we got home.
And none of it’s there. Not even your dimples. See?