Once when we were younger, you kidnapped my hand.
You tugged so hard I thought it would fall off, because
I did not understand anatomy yet.

You asked me how fast we’d have to spin to fly.
I made up something like ten thousand miles an hour, because
I did not understand gravity yet.

We raced in circles, your fingers latched to mine.
To this day, I still remember exactly how it felt to fly, because
I did not understand reality yet.