You are taller than I remember

We both grew up,
and I do not recognize you.
You do not recognize me
either.

I wonder if you
remember us
like I
do.

I see us,
at the kitchen table,
the clock ticking
a reminder of sleep.

We talked about
shared secrets,
favorite colors,
and how to be better.

It was a long time ago.
We were so small.
My room was green.
Yours was blue.

That table is gone now.
The house too.
Nothing made it out of there intact.
Not even us.

But I still remember.
Not all of it,
but enough
to mourn.