6pm on a summer night.
I hear mom through the kitchen window
Hollering us home from the field.
We race one last time to the house.

Hungry for adventure.
Hungry for competition.
Hungry for dinner.

Bursting through the back door,
Dad yells up the stairs.
We won't forget to wash up.

Taking turns at the sink.
Helping the little onto the stool.
Blowing bubbles with the handsoap.
Close my eyes and inhale...

Warm Ginger and Honey.

I open my eyes to see myself.
My reflection is almost 20.
Washing up with the same soap,
But this time I bought it myself.

Nostalgia.

-[h.r.]

listen--
         it's two-thirty in the morning.
         there is a song playing, and it doesn't remind me of you,
         but i thought you should know
         because this next part is important.

the singer is Elliott Smith,
         and he's kissing his darling between jailbird bars
         just like that time--remember?--when we kissed
         through the gap in the barbed wire,
         and our hearts danced like the strobe of police lights.

                      (we were trespassing)

i'm not thinking of you,
        because while i'm out here smoking,
        and i wet my lips so the paper doesn't stick to them like heartbreak,
        i don't imagine your cherry Chapstick or the way it left
        mellow pink stains on your cigarette filters.

these are the facts:
        i've nearly forgotten you;
        i'm not still hung up on the smell of lavender handsoap;
        i haven't rifled through a single Facebook album;
        i don't know the name, address, and telephone number

                    (not to mention, i haven't memorized a single
                               stupid, snarky tweet)

of your new boyfriend
       with the pretentious French last name.
       anyway, i don't know why i decided to call,
       i guess it was just to let you know
       how i'm doing just fine without you.

He's gone.

And that kinda *****.

He wasn't who I thought he was. He was more capable of anger and ruthlessness than I imagined. Saying things that tear out the most vulnerable parts and stab them to bits.

He was more childish than I thought he'd be for his age. He spends recklessly, doesn't have handsoap in his bathroom, and watches TV from a desk chair.

He was flaky and shady. Giving little information and being dodgy about his phone and whereabouts. He consistently cancelled plans and left me in the lurch.

He was never going to think about someone else for a change or be truly and deeply mindful of his significant other.

He had a sharp tongue and a hard head. If I didn't select every word carefully, he would snap and say horrible things.

He didn't let her go. As much as he would deny it, Priya still has a hold on him. He can't let her go. He would say terrible things about her and then also say I was like her.  He would delete her messages and lie about her texting him. He carried through the trauma and treated me like her. He wanted a relationship to just pick up where that one left off and not put the effort into 'dating'. I was a continuation of his previous relationship - all the history but only the good person.

He was boastful and also self-deprecating.

He drank too much and smoked too much.

He didn't follow through on things he said he would do.

He love bombed me and then pulled away to where I felt empty.

He's gone.

And that kinda *****.

And I'm sad that I still miss him.



-t.s.

your fingertips are coated with stardust
from the other day when you dipped into
the midnight skyscape as though
it were paint and I could smell it on you,
the faerie-light, confectionary sugar scent
of hazy dreams the color of moon-bathed water

i clasped your hands gingerly because
everyone knows that starstuff is sticky and steadfast
and you told me that the oceans don’t
follow the moon for the fun of it

i don’t remember much of what came after
because you had aligned your fingers so
precisely against mine that I could feel the remnants
of a thousand dying universes caught
in the creases of my thumbs

i soon learned that handsoap only applies
to the earthly, just like water doesn’t even
touch stains on the soul

watching snow pour to evermore
with milk and honey handsoap

we’re not allowed to be in the house past a certain time. we read in tongues from the book of that’s how babies disappear. we hide the insomniac’s handsoap. our fathers do impressions. our mothers the bulk of the digging. we waste little. blood, paint. from our dream supply.