i tear into bookshelves
as if i only eat peaches
to crack my teeth on the pit,
yet you have a dog-eared page
stained with scrawled hearts,
folded and flown across the schoolyard
by a boy walking circles
round a swing set.
yes i picked tulips with you when i was young-
when i never went past eskimo kisses
or knew about roots and ****** falls.
every day i carried needles in my stomach...
i wanted to stitch our skin together.
now you’re landlocked in the rustbelt
counting change all day-
i’d buy you a plane ticket if i didn’t look like saint jude.
i suppose i should
treat you suchlike a sweater
i don’t know whether to fold or hang,
plant seeds in foreign gardens
and carve our initials
when they turn into trees
or scatter your ashes on the throughway,
near a city you’ve never seen.