Your hands were the first thing I noticed about you.
They were calloused but still delicate,
with a tan that reminded me of a graham cracker crust.
Strong hands that could fix a fence post,
or make a damn good breakfast,
or break a heart.
When you crush graham crackers
with the right amount of pressure,
you pack them tightly.
It’s like when you hide behind tractors or chase wild hogs.
You never really said much. But when you did, it was real.
When you leaned in close and asked me,
“Have you ever had Key Lime Pie?”
That was the moment I knew we’d burn hot,
but brief, like the last slice on the counter before closing time.
And then we were birds,
migrating south of nowhere
before Winter could catch us
I tried small talk:
Harsh weather, deadlines, and commuter trains.
Too city, you said.
Too city for your soil.
Too skyline for your sunrise.
I think that’s when I found out what you wanted:
harvest, hay bales and row crops.
You cut through the bullshit
how citrus cuts through taste buds,
and makes you suck in your cheeks when it stings.
Egg yolk was the protein that bound us,
Like the gooey stuff we don’t say but feel
when we rode bikes past palm trees
with the sun painting halos on the tops of our heads,
And we danced to bad pop songs at a drag show on Duval.
Your laugh was louder than the bass.
Without a good egg,
We could never cling to that day
like it was the only one we’d ever get.
guys like us,
pies like us,
will always need time to set.
We only see each other in slices:
a weekend here, a Florida fantasy there,
Sweat on your skin and sea salt in the air.
We blended into each other that night,
but by morning, we’d be in separate time zones.
So we promised to do it all over again,
when the cravings come back,
and we savored that feeling
Then we put it back in the fridge for another day.
Too much of anything can make you sick.
You called me your sugar,
I called you lime.
We’ll always have Key West,
one slice at a time.