suddenly, you wait for me just outside Mrs. Hao’s door — a rewrite in your best English Honors (even though you never took the class) —
you, Michael… take my hand, and we walk toward the glimmering dimming light of the 1,000th high school reunion but this time, together, this time, I float on a shimmering glittery path
we pause as I look up into your incredulous face, a beam of yesterday’s sunshine between us, a what-if before our lips meet and the stars align
you linger on the corner of my mouth, and I smell spaghetti Wednesdays, pikake and maile lei proms (I never attended), the puff of soft linen snow on your New England winter coat — the one before business
“Why are we together now?”
“I always wished I had the courage to say yes to you.”
as I look away, two others gather behind the one, as bashful as hormonal freshmen on a Dungeons & Dragon late-night bender
“Did you ever go to a dance?”
“No,” I tell him, holding his hand a little longer.
“—and Bullies.” They’re dead now.
Michael Iwatake, come home.