Some years are about danger.
Like a hot dare whispered in your ear 365 times.
Do what you can with these days.
They may not return and you will just learn to knit or something dull and vulgar.
I forget things.
Like what happened in February.
The exact words we flung.
All of the months I wore gloves.
Your mouth moving so slowly.
But I remember things too.
The summer sun baking me bravely.
Dancing in a crowd.
Rising from a million steamy baths.