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I wore your jeans yesterday. Your old Levis. They are faded and worn. Won’t be long until I have to surrender them up completely to the effects of adoration and time. But they still remind me of you. Memories of disconnected moments. All those times I slept in your bed and tried to achieve a greater closeness by shrouding myself within the confines of your things. We stalked the streets in the University District to imitate the exoticness of lovers at coffeehouses, where you read to me in your best poet’s voice from The Grapes of Wrath, and I wrote secret notes on the backs of sugar packets and wouldn’t let you see them. You kissed me – full on the mouth – in front of everyone. Held my hand across the table. Five large fingers that refused to let me go. Afterward we walked the lake. Dipping naked toes into the cold. At night. The side of your head against mine, from behind. Those arms like ivy wrapped around my ribs. Your almost criminal embrace.