I knew you hated olives,
but never made a fuss
just lined them like dark little moons
on the rim of your plate.

I knew the pinecone on your desk
came from the trail where we once
got lost in the fog
and found our way back laughing.

I knew you tapped your fingers when reading,
as if the story was music
and you were keeping time
only you could hear.

You cried at The Iron Giant
no matter how many times
you swore you wouldn’t.
I brought the tissues before you asked.

But I didn’t know
why you stopped calling that summer,
or what your father said to you
when the sky split open
over the lake.

I didn’t know
if that birthday poem landed,
or fell flat like a skipped stone.
You smiled, but I couldn’t tell
what lingered behind it.

I didn’t know what song played
as you danced your first dance
with someone not me,
or if you looked at the door.

I knew you paused
before saying “goodbye,”
but I never knew
which time
was the last.