Teleport

Did you teleport me back to my youth?

Because suddenly,

it’s like my heart remembered how to skip a beat.

You make me feel young—

but not the carefree kind,

the everything-matters kind.

Giddy.

Breathless.

Butterflies doing cartwheels in places I’d long since quieted.

I catch myself

tripping over words I’d practiced in my head.

You make me nervous

in that delicious, dizzy way—

like the very first time someone looked at me

and I hoped they’d never look away.

You make me wonder

if “firsts” are something that can still happen

even after we’ve been broken,

even after the world’s tried to turn us cautious.

Because when you speak,

my heart forgets what decade it’s in.

My smile feels untrained again.

And for a moment,

I let it.

Did you teleport me

or simply remind me

that parts of me never really grew old?