Extrovert — somehow the word falls with weight, like a slippery marble, but peels off my tongue. Our trajectories at once unnervingly similar and utterly incongruous: this quiet loudness and this voluble silence. Water molecule in a drop of rain met with the grace of entire forests.

I wrote a poem about you when I was fourteen or fifteen. I called you “my love” but didn’t know what it meant, because we had neither met nor loved yet. Now I know it in the flood I carry, the sky in my feet, fruit in my hands splitting to give ripe flesh.

From whence were you sent to fill my hungry soul with this soft, sharp hum of light? Whether teeth or tender calves sore from the journey, I want to pry at this life with you.