Catalogue of Things I Hope For After You’re Gone

I hope you crunch fall leaves under feet

like I keep wearing old shoes

when I’ve burned a hole through them.

Here.

I hope you wear the bracelet I made you

like I wear the funky socks you got me.

Here.

I hope you read poetry

like I play Smash Bros,

religiously, when I never used to before.

Here.

I hope no one teaches you

how to ride a bike,

not because they don’t offer, but because

I always said it would be me.

Here.

I hope every leaf you step on

reminds you of me, that day

we wandered the park and

found the pier, where we

stayed in each other’s arms

like dandelions stay in the breeze—

easily, a gentle fall before

being scooped up again.