memory, in four parts

I.
here is what i remember:

it is raining,
and we are running down the path
between our houses.
as we splash along,
reckless feet beneath us,
our sneakers
squelch and lurch along.

you are faster than me
--longer legs, stronger muscles--
but as we reach the space between
where you live
and where i live
you stop and duck beneath
the porch light of my door and
when i reach you, finally,
you are laughing,
head thrown back, knees bent.

our shirts stick to our skin,
and now i am laughing too.
the rain is beating hard against the tin roof,
the palest echo of my heart against
its ribcage, as you
pull your arms around me
and trace the shape of my face with your palm.

II.
here is what i discover:

that there,
beneath the porch light
in a fall downpour,

you taste of rain.

III.
here is the truth:

there is no storm.
there is no porch light, no running,
no laughter,
no moment where our faces were so close
i could no longer see
your white breath mingling with mine.
there is no memory.

IV.
here is what i know now:

there is you, and the space between us

and sometimes
that is enough.