On the first Saturday, I was a stranger in your house.
We lay side by side, your ankle over mine,
And watched re-runs of our favorite show.
Your fingers found my hand, as if by accident,
But neither of us said a word.
Your sister asked if we were going to get married.
On the second Saturday, I knew you better.
We spent the day jumping on the trampoline,
Laughing and rolling in colored leaves.
At night, we lay on your bed and stared at the ceiling
And talked about the stars.
My jacket left a constellation on your arm.
On the last Saturday, we threw a party.
We ate pizza around the koi pond and walked to the park,
Where you said goodbye to a friend.
When the sun disappeared, we piled into a car
And took sharp turns with the windows down.
The wind smelled of summer when you kissed me.
Saturdays don't happen anymore.