Mar 22, 2017
hopeful
“I guess I won’t be the last one here.”
He writes me love letters with the callouses
Of his hands, his seed spilling ink onto flesh.
Plum and faint salmon have yet to swallow the sky and this short
Epoch of ours is already a dreamt eternity in his eyes. We were
Figurines in that moment—wood, sand, ice. I told him so, and hoped he
Understood that our frolics are only for the craters of the moon and not for the
Leisure of the sun. I was, after all, just a ghost left from lovers past.
“You’re not that naïve to ask.”
