You first wore my sunglasses—ya know, the half-frame tortoise-shell wayfarers—not even a month after my 22nd birthday.  They look better on you than they do me, especially when I handed them to you and the sun caught you mid-step, bleeding into your lazily brushed hair and handmade wind chime earrings.  That’s the image in my mind I’ll have of you forever.  Forever is a long time: it takes all day and into tomorrow to get there.  And I’ve always wanted to go, but never had the time.  But, never never lasts.  I’ll be forever soon.  I’ll find you there between the lavender bushes and black bees.  Or, among the pebbles of the hot concrete, observing the synchronous repeated slaps of sneakers that are forever, too.  A breath lifts the wind of this place with leaves and things; the sun is multiplied by metal and plastic.  The door knobs to our houses are almost too hot to open. But, I manage one of them ajar and ask for my sunglasses back.