to two hundred heart-break poems later.
to the aftermath of spring.
picture us. wet-winded and willow-limbed.
breathing in a cloud of voice-smoke and body-
rush that heats us—inside-out.
the world will have turned over
millions of shiny new leaves but the red
in the corner of my eye reminds me
about the last time I plucked a heart-
thorn from a rose-blood afternoon.
you will bite your tongue—and it will hurt
us both—but we will laugh about it.
call it “past-life”. grind ugly
memories between us into bone-
dust.
to two hundred heart-break poems later.
to the ultra-violet wavelength of summer.
somewhere, there’s a version of us
sky-eyed and sleepy-headed.
sun-skinned and dripping water-
melon sweet. love-making into the lip-
smack of dawn.
somewhere, there’s a version of us
that doesn’t end with a loose-
thread and a prick of regret.
and I want you to see it.