Someone

I want to ask you what your name is,

because I really don’t know,

but because I know you’ll lead me to the lemon trees

and ask me to find

my patience,

and you’ll take my hand quite gently,

and tell me things I wish I would remember.

I’ll hold the lemon you gave me, until my palm is stained with the gift,

So I can’t forget like I want to.

I want to ask you what your name is, so I can write you letters

with the smell of lemon, so you won’t forget either.

Because you usually do.

I want to ask you what your name is,

So maybe,

we will sit in the back of a moving pick up truck,

and my hair will stick to my face,

and then I'll worry that the journey will end,

until you remind me that we weren't going anywhere in the first place.

And I won't question if you’re right,

because you usually are.

I want to ask you what your name is,

so you’ll say that now we are friends,

And remind me to be sure of myself at

Random moments, until maybe I

cry

a little,

and remember how I hate your spontaneity.

And I’ll ask you easy questions with difficult answers.

Because you usually know.

I want to ask you what your name is, so I can say I knew you once,

and that we held lemons together and did ridiculous things

without question.

I want to ask you what your name is,

but I won’t.

For I fear you may tell me the truth, and act like you don’t know me,

and I may never smell a lemon again.