By Christina Flores-Chan
You wrote a verse about the summer we spent together
I hate the way I recognized myself in your lyrics
Hearing your voice for the first time in six months raised goosebumps on my arms
It might be the broken heater in this apartment though, I don’t know
You sang about how my touch gave you chills even under the sweltering sun
I’m sorry I never warned you about my bad blood circulation
I’m sorry I was the coldest part of that summer
When the memory of holding your hand, the night sky collapsing over us, burns through my skin
I still listen to your music with Spotify’s private session on
It’s snowing in the city and I don’t want anyone to know that I still think about you when I sit by the fireplace, fingers looming over the flames