Socks | poem

For our birthdays,

we exchanged

socks like promises:

I’ll protect you

if you protect me.

But we hated

confinement, so

often, we shed

our socks and raced

through hallways,

puddles, rivers—

more than common

ground.

We broke free

of simplicity—spilled

over walls like nail polish,

screamed like firing guns,

and ate our fill

of rainclouds.

For your birthday,

I wear your socks,

slip, fall, and think:

I’ll get up for you

if you get up for me.