Your love: a drug that makes the rest feel like decaf; a breeze that bent my knees back on the first pass; a light tap that made ink drip out like tree sap. I need that. I’m left wondering when you’ll be back.

A delusion seen by two—”Folie à deux.” When you left, you took the summer with you. I need the substantial pleasure of seeing and possessing you, too.

Because you see, I’d find you in the darkness if you were there. Always in a form that’s rare; why was the night so dazzling when your scent was in the air?

How much time passes before you never talk to someone then?

I’ll never love again, the misery I’m buried in is twisted like the cherry stem.