Years later, I will run into you but

I won’t recall if you said to me
I love you, though your warm breath strokes my

nape. And I am certain we never
kissed, though your April tongue grazes my

teeth, cheeks. Nor will I recollect your
rookie hands slipping around my hips

even though you swear that to prep you
for med school we explored each other’s

automatic reflexes and sweat
that summer afternoon behind

Joe Creek’s. Deep in the ferns.
Under your mom’s accidental glare.