Remember when we first met?
My hair was not so red and not so long and not so knotty.
I arrived early in the morning with my sister after a long car ride from Brooklyn on Interstate 80 where meals were devoured with the speed of miles on green Honda Civic.
I had no idea how wide you were.
I heard all about those mountains, but didn’t expect to climb them or picnic against your grooves or kiss at the top of one on a day that I watched turn into night.
Your dirt is cleaner than the dirt I grew accustomed to.
And although you are land-locked, I took naps and carved poems into my notebook by Boulder’s creek.
I lived in five homes: two studios, two apartments and the bottom level of a home.
I fell in love. I earned a degree. I hosted an open mic. I became a freelance writer. I performed. I learned how to knit. I learned what kale is. I learned what quinoa is. I found community. I found activism. I found music. I found my self.
Denver, I’m aware of your parks (over 200).
Boulder, I’m aware of your bike lanes and poetic lineage.
Will you remember me?
Will you recognize me?
When I shake off the dirt of Brooklyn from my body/ I will ask you if I have changed/ And I might inquire if I’ve grown/ And I may want to know if it’s OK that I’ve returned.
Sometimes, we just need to leave in order to know what has been left behind…….
Turned off Washed Out. Couldn’t hear your words over the beats.