It always begins in amber,
the candles in the windows,
the streetlight near you exit off the highway
the way the light dances in your draft.

The thought of us:
but glowing like a porch light.

I find myself writing love letters to your hands,
flowery apologies tripping over perfumed saturated stationary
words smearing like “I’m sor—
Your –nds never got to kn– me”

I close my eyes
and dream of your fingers
making pirouettes on my skin.
The moonlight hits your nails
in the valleys of my hips and we are
fireflied bodies:

You were the poem I had to walk away from;
if I looked at you too long
I began to want the taste of marble in my mouth.
I thought of us tangled together in so many ways, gargoyles would blush.

In one scenario you’d actually spell my name
In another, you’d come to my house, sober,
and stay the night.

And I keep writing you these
drawn out pieces,
keep calling them poetry,
because some nights, our eyes would lock and I was hoping
you took the time to memorize my face.
I was hoping you realize what a damn fool you were,
all those times you broke your gaze.
I was hoping I’m not just another flavor, a particular taste;
another passenger in your car,
listening to “Cigarettes and Saints.”

And if I only matter in bored daydreams,
if I’m worthy to pop up, years later, in your psyche:
I hope you’ll search for my words to hold close, when you can’t find me.
This ink is the Amber, babe,
and I am nothing more than fossil of your past,
a glowing, fervid memory.


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