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.