Bleeding nose.
Crooked smile.

I will run you under water.

Your carved, concrete face.

Clothes you did not wear: tulip.

Leave your red suitcase on the floor.
The fanny pack, too.

Soft whistles: ghostly silk of burnt ember.

I am the only one you never needed.

Saliva on your bottom lip.

A hole.
A pillow.

We sat warm on elongated bus rides.

Followed barren trees along the highway to places we won’t.

 

(originally published in The Magnolia Review, Summer 2018)