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.

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