I want to name my veins
After hurricanes;
This one,
In my wrist, pale blue, yet somehow
I can see the trail, this one
Is named Rita,
Because it washed away
The man I loved in Texas,

The ocean is never as salty as
My cheeks when I kiss him
Through the miles
He counts the stars,
and I try to count them too
So I lay in bed counting stars
That I can’t see
But this popcorn ceiling will do.