Here she is with soulful eyes telling me
I'm ancient, I'm precious, but she's wrong;
I'm pale, sickly lithium
and she's gold, she's the sweat of the sun.
It turns out every word I think I have
is foreign to her. Hammered out,
inscribed with triple negatives. Each
leaves its meaning to be moulded.

It's not a way to be forgotten;
always thought freckles would be red, a spark
not soot, not post holes on a new land.
A discovery, not something
I'd feel so wrong for noticing.
There was no red in her. I'd stripped it out
like thread through teeth, solid ache;
not like how you’d expect.

I am not careful, while she pretends
not to need any care. Until now,
never exposed to each other;
we’re left with this red in our hands, too
mudded like closing eyes to the sun.
Seeing ourselves stretched thin,
buried bronze in the river, an offer to what?
To make it hold deeper, the very start of us.