Wise people say we only romanticize summer
Because it’s the only chance we get to rest, so I
Spend my waking days with the sun, stare at it
Softly through a pail of water.
Warmth indicates an openness to be loved, so I always
Leave my cold palms up on the table as I sit next to you.
And they stay there unmoving, even as you move away.
The next time I lift them is to rummage through the
Shelves of the words I never got to say and
They glimmer as much as dead stars can shine. I
Fuse them in a stellar collision, make them crash, and
Burn in a blaze of glory and salt. It is the closest to
I have always loved you that I will ever say.
See, the sun has never belonged to
So I lay here paralyzed from the thought of you.
Yet the sun remains a star, a wrenching reminder
That their place has always been in the sky
As you remain in my mind
Because only in smeared dreams
Could I find what would have been memories
And I swore I would forget
The words at the back of my shelves,
The way your eyes turned into crescent moons,
The feeling of your fingers brushing against mine
When we waited for spring at that bus stop.
Your palms stayed up, shielded by gloves,
Yet you remarked they were cold.
We held the sun in between our hands,
As spring came to us.
And I wondered,
Did you feel the warmth as well?