The Theory of Everything

So it ends: I walk backwards down my street under the moonlight,
tears disappearing into my eyes.
You greet the driver, get out of the lyft and pull me into your arms for the first time.
We walk hand in hand, rewinding back to the top of a hill as the clock changes
to August 7th. You hold me close under a streetlight,
our shoulders wet with tears: a first date.

So it goes: we drive backwards home from the beach, return our smoothies to the store
and receive our money back. I unlearn all your favorite songs; they fade
into deja vu. On the night of your dad’s birthday,
sometime before he uncuts the cake and allows the twins to exhale fire onto the candles,
we watch your favorite movie. The characters twist and turn, acting out their love story
backwards and forwards in time. The best stories can be told either way.

On May 1st, I feel like I’ve known you forever. We walk circles
around the neighborhoods and the park until we sit down on top of a hill peppered with daisies.
You kiss me for the last time: a first kiss. We untangle our fingers
before cautiously comparing the sizes of our hands, a quintessential ploy performed
under cartoon clouds. We retreat to our individual corners of the blanket to write quietly as I steal
secret glances at you and time ticks counter clockwise. I take back my nervous words,
lifting the ink straight off the page.
We leave the hill, greet each other for the first time, and I walk backwards until
you’re out of sight. So it begins: