when she was eight years old
she
asked her mother
have you seen the girl with
lashes like butterflies against sharp cheekbone branches?
a dandelion sprouting from sludge covered gutters and streets
streets, where you feel that bitter bland nothingness in your stomach

it feels buttery to stare at her:
see how snow outstretches arms and twirls tippy toes, envies her grace
see how balloon sized raindrops pop, target the freckles on her arm
see how her forehead crinkles when she concentrates, nothing more than a beacon
proclaiming she trickles with stars

when she was eight years old
her parent's violent protests slipped bruises under her skin like pennies in a coin slot
but they could not contain the celestial girl tucked under her ribcage.

she would still look at her like she was the breakfast sun on a saturday
whistling by the creak, catching glimpses of dresses from behind the legs of trees.
see how this is special love, sweet as strawberry fields under soft sun
they would never feel on their forked, sour tongues

You were left behind
A victim of a mirage I’d stepped into
One yellow rain boot too deep.

You, slithering out of your cases
Scratched by the fading sunlight
Are my prized possession
For every moment you held inside
Was as carefree
As the words I spoke.

You were delicate artwork
not art as in paintings that were to be hung
carefully in the front of a museum
but the ones curling at the corners
slipping from underneath fridge magnets.

With my eyes pinned on the screen
seeping into my temples
Your naked feet fumbled with the sand
Fumbled with the hopping and twirling toes
of beach dancers
Fumble with the endless badges you have gained
over the ribbon on your chest
places you have gone
but, it is all as futile as it is alluring

sand is just tiny, little rocks
You will fade, these images
will fade from my memory

like the endless
titles in a bookstore
and I will return to my reflection
ingrained in silver circle.

my pillow feels so cold
is it uncharted land?
am i the light you're drawn to?
a silver moth rested upon wilting hand

your fingers feel so foreign.
do you choke on your voice?
did i leave my throat in your bedroom?
for i can't make a noise.

if it's changing for the better
why are we walking south?
did you paint your words in something bitter?
for lemon coats my mouth.

sometimes if i try hard enough
i can still taste your toothpaste on my tongue
a faint prickle of peppermint
feels like splinters in my lungs.

you
had a chapstick tube
stowed away in your bag of things you never put to use
those scarred chapped lips
scratching, tearing
crevice of your mouth craved my heart
bleeding, uncaring
and subsequently my mango chapstick would serve it's purpose
on your lips and never mine.
among other things, you had a pair of white socks.
you never wore them,
too pristine
(you'd ruin them as you teetered on slippery suspended logs)

you reminded me of a cracked open window,
always hoping you would be at the mullioned panes
chapped lips, white socks and all
but the only thing that pushed against the glass was the scent of mango air.
and
mango never smelt so bitter.

when
will you come home
replace the mango air with your feverish cologne.
a swaying of the breeze and your tee shirt wraps a cotton arm
around your waist
the bitter aftertaste
your tongue like grapefruit wedged against my teeth

i missed the smell of burnt bread bottom,
when we were in the kitchen
and the gown of silver hemmed water that danced down the roof,
tapping
again and again and again
but, when you come home next month.
I will be gone.

the mango
around our home
had long since
turned bitter
and that brown picket fence no longer bends around my heart
i am somewhere where the mango still smells sweet
and
boys give my their chapstick for i've long since run out of mine.

with her
the sun rises
at midnight

sets when she leaves in the morning

clouds curl at the tips
their edges unmasking freckles of stars
but still the sun rises
at midnight

she is the sun on weekends
coaxing children's toes to bounce along
cement streets
and elderly women to pass lemonade stands
and order
"just a cup for the road"

she is my favorite chair to sit in
with a good book
and a blanket
missing a patch of leather
that i run my hands across
while i read

and when i sit outside with her
at midnight
the sun peaks its blonde hair
from behind the mountains.

she reminds me
of
sleeping
with the windows open

she sounds like
pressing a shell
against your ear

she looks like sunflowers
and summersaults
and mowed grass
and picnic blankets

and

she shows me I don't always have to finish my sentences.

she tastes like pulp free orange juice
feels like the sand in between my toes
looks like a postcard summer
holds me with the kind of hands you never forget
holding

she
she watches as I tap my feet to the floor
three times
close the door
three times
kiss her cheek
three times

and

she shows me what it's like to live in a world where unfinished is beautiful and
necessary
and
I try to find the words to explain to her
how I feel
when she rubs her thumb on my palm
and
how I feel
when she holds my waist
and
how I feel
when I hear her
even for a second

and;