Two Futures

I remember cielito lindo, San Martin and the dunes with the rain.
It's like I'm a siamese twin, my spine curving into a question mark: four legs and four eyes, two hearts and one singular spine. Sometimes I'm a child, I'm solemn or I love to dance, talk and talk and talk. Four arms to hold you, two mouths to whisper when you're blue and a twisting spine to trace with fingertips. Sometimes you love me and sometimes you don't, but I'm not sure which one most of the time.
Both of those twin hearts belong to you, but you've hidden them away beneath the layers of your skin. Those layers of geography and memory, the distance I can't span to the cold mountains that I've always been a little afraid of.
Now these limbs are trying to span these oceans that separate us. If I sang a song of pink and gold sunsets would you remember? If I was better, if I was stronger, would that melt the December frost that crept inside? If I slipped something wrapped in paper and ribbon into your pocket, would you think of me? These hands can't reach that far if you won't meet me.
For now my legs stand on the shoreline, waves lapping at my four feet. I keep one ear pressed to the sand listening for your footsteps on the tail of a January breeze, I keep two eyes looking for the city across the Bay. Will you come back, will you come back?