Maybe it’s time I delete you from my text messages;
Maybe it’s time I scrub you from my skin,
the kisses you would have planted down my neck.
I can close my eyes and see you in your black tank top,
the sun warming our backs,
a dozen freckles sprinkled on your shoulder.
The things I would do to that constellation…
the stories it could tell if I connected each star
with my finger, or kiss by patient kiss.
The sparks that fly between us are almost as bright,
lighting up my hope against my better judgement.
And since I cannot erase the stars from the sky,
I will take a snapshot of that moment in my mind,
maybe save it with my screenshots.
I’ll hope that this time next year,
I’ll meet Earth’s orbit where I saw you last:
on a beautiful bridge, with a beautiful boy
Remembering what it was like
the first time I read a poem that breathed your breath,
traced the marks that line your skin,
Felt the smoothness of your lips against mine—
while specks of light danced on your Brooklyn face,
the way the sun welcomes the stars home.
September 26, 2019