Can you crawl out of your window?

I remember you and I remember me, though it must have been days ago. In the hours where you are standing in front of me, first I think, "Soon you will leave and I won't see you for months, maybe a year," and then I think, "These are the ways you've changed and these are the ways you haven't." 

At one time, we were both sixteen and in love. We asked questions and cleaned windows and read the dictionary and got our drivers licenses. We touched each other like two people with parents and pets at home. We were children, and I was just learning how to iron a shirt. 

When I saw you days ago, you brought me a book of lesser known british poets that a friend of yours had kept for years and years. The binding was chipping like paint. "Keep it in a safe place. It's old." I hugged you and said it smelled like sewage. Then, I laughed and thanked you for it.

You kissed me in every room in my house, standing on the hardwood, beside the dryer where I hang dishtowels, beside lamps and blankets. And, then we sat beside each other and named the reasons why we were not in love. You left that day and told me you were  happy to know that if you brought your wrinkly clothes, I could lay them on the floor and iron all of the wrinkles out.