.


2.8.

the texture of my missed sunrise

wrapped in amber arms and a smirk
fluxing in the newborn light:
I’d’ve flung myself in arms that begged to hold me
           if I’d known they were there

I’m staring into your distance, someone
singing in my buttoned ears
—chops for my cubical existence
wandering mind

there’s cement beneath us in springtime, still cold
to the touch of jean-clad cheeks,
this tank top rag doll
folded into your lanky figure,
patient for day

I’m trapped,     sometimes,
in fleeting shadows—moments that shouldn’t feel
like midwinter sun taunting,

glaring winds
tangling the air, hair
falling in your solstice eyes,

but they do


.