remember and remind me (please)

remind me of your favorite words.

when I speak them, I want to notice
my orchid facing the world, parking lot
full of today’s laughing yuppies as children
don’t live here, but they certainly lived
somewhere one point in time, one year
remembered, one season to protest any
drop of humidity that oversaturates
the pivotal calm we take for granted.

you told me you could read them
even in my hurried, hybrid cursive
that sought to be read by anyone
but truly, only you understood the
muted spaces, demure little vowels
letting consonants deliver truth to
a tee as ambulances catch speed.

we can only write what we know.

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