and you think to yourself 'spring is on its deathbed' no, it's not snow, i say, it's growth. you catch a delicate fragile blossom between the stained lilypads on your finger. 'make a wish,' you say.
i say 'it's not death, see?' it's sweet and sticky like a honeydew summer,
'why did you pause?' i say. 'i just can't feel it,' you say, 'i can't see the snow anymore.'
it's always the same path - cobblestone streets ('someone else walked here a thousand years ago how beautiful is it that we exist') meet cerulean seafoam ('another oil spill soon we won't be able to swim anymore') meets cicada song and hummus soil. you would know these stones blind.
when you jump, you still close your eyes. suspended in mid-air gripping your knees, you're like a bug pinned to a soft piece of cork. preserved in amber, i say 'our lives are a movie'
you say 'yeah? where's our happy ending?' so i push you into the water.
suspended in mid-air gripping your knees, you are like a pearl trapped in an oyster trapped in a myth. you tremble and flicker like a candle
wick under a ceiling fan through the window screen.
the train never stops moving, not even when it reaches the ocean. not when we drown. 'you're in the mirror again' i notice, casually, conversationally. 'riddle me this,' you say,
peeling an orange.
the grief in your eyes is ancient - it does not belong to you. 'you stole it from someone', i say. i am wrong, like a comet plunging into your cerebrum, but we can still host a nice funeral. you offer me a slice. of your orange,
of your grief.
'to water your plants with', you say.
the grief engulfs you, slithers around you,
an arm that isn't mine.
it is a mosquito on your shoulder, stealing your blood, spilling out your liquid heart like a tube of lipgloss, i try to swat it away but it turns its head like an owl, choosing a new spot, unpacking its things. it puts up posters and monochrome sheets, making its home in the curve of your collarbone. you shrink in your second-hand leather jacket ('boy, if this thing could talk,') and the sleeves loosen around your shoulders like a deflating balloon.
i'm forgetting something. 'you regret loving,' you choke out. 'who do you owe
forgiveness to?'
we clink our wine glasses and i
spit out a watermelon seed.
'the sea will blossom this summer', you say, your whole body covered with algae.
