After You Jumped Out The Window

I remembered sixth grade:
school afternoon, the teacher’s mouth

open, leaking what I recall
only as gibberish. You tapped

my shoulder to ask me just how wet
vaginas got. I don’t know

what I told you; but we laughed
exactly the way two kids should

after discovering how they’re entitled
to the world’s every pleasure, every

height. Did you think the snow
would break your fall?

Does winter cease the flow
of womanly fluids

specifically in Canada?
High school for us ended

the brotherhood between pens
and phonebooks. Now I cannot know

the weather that took
your last breath. We only shared happiness,

which is sad, when you think about it.
But Adrian, even if your face

never frames itself in my head
when I have sex, whenever I order

a beer in a place colder than common,
I think of the goodness still promised

to both of us, and I remember
some old discoveries:

How true it is, dear friend,
that life happens so well—

how before we know it
we’ll be holding cocktails

in some placeless balcony, telling
each other how life is good

and so is sex; and how if you do it
well enough, it almost feels

like falling.