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;