Nina Sorelle

Not the beautiful kind —

the kind that cuts and leaves scars.

lying in the field

bare skin

against the heat

you above me

like a shadow

i don’t move

i just

lipstick on your chin

you’re still sleeping

and i smile

this morning

just rose jam

and the way

you taste

everything feels like you again

as if poetry

is nothing but

could’ve had your name

an azalea

on the corner

me just beneath

its bloom

violet nails

holding something small

they all came

for the palms

but you—

you were watching

my leg

the way

i fixed my lipstick

you’re a good kisser

and somehow

i ended up

blue-tinted

inside a polaroid

you kept

oven warm

cherry batter

on my fingers

i stretch

just enough

to reach the top shelf

you step closer

like you were waiting

for that

you look at me

like you’re part

the scent of jasmine

the taste of peaches

and wear the sun

i want everything

then disappear

shy

but not innocent

i’ve seen mirrors

and ruined lipstick

maybe love isn’t real

on my lips

coffee in my hands

morning turning lilac

and me wanting more

you calling me

i look beautiful

like this

eyes a little blurred

voice softer

and i hated

how much

i wanted you

my lips

still burning

and i smiled

a little blue

like i liked

the danger

a rose caught in my hair

you whisper my name

and lift me

onto the hood

orange sky, vanilla air

the sea watching

like it knows

something impossible

mint and chocolate

the air smells like jasmine

and something I almost remember

a line of shoes by the door

your quiet somewhere in the house

and me—

writing again

as if poetry

was just

the fact that you exist

water on my lips

you beside me, quiet—

and suddenly

you become the only thing I keep writing.

on the table

still warm

like the way

you stayed

in my hands