C O

A poem about familiarity.

With warm weather comes humidity which makes my garage smell familiar, like the excitement when finding cans of dry play-doh in my grandmother's shoebox.

Now I stand between the chipped white bookcase and the broken green leaf-blower and I breathe. I inhale deeper until I find myself suspended at a climax: my lungs submerged in memory's comfort, potential energy tumbling toward my kinetic exhale, the roller coaster in my middle school textbook.

You wear the same familiarity in you coat when the cold bites too personally and you reel me in.