We were bed-wetters, Kentfield streeters.
We were mitten-wearing kids who made forts in the winter, and went in with cold hands to hot cocoa in my kitchen where we hid and talked
about kid things while your mother was away.
We were some sweaty, mosquito-bitten kids blowing up ants with firecrackers, and everyone said "those kids'll get married."
One day your lights popped out and your house was desolate.
I biked to the address on the paper scrap you left me.
Empty, I stuck notes in the mailbox anyway.
I didn't know you moved again and didn't tell me.
Best-friend kids made strange adults who knew each other's ghosts.
Turns out I never married you and last time I saw you, you were tying some knot with some dude I never heard of, six months knocked up.