having held the hand of the girl with the broomstick hair
I was flammable
long before you brought sparklers and kerosene,
late nights reading by lamplight and recommending
songs that would bypass the busier streets.
Moonshine in my eye shadow,
a little forbidden, a little magical,
a little bit of gloss stuck on every word,
not like magazine-page finish but like denying that a book will be finished.
Soda with floating edges of kerosene,
a little deadly, a little pleasant gleam,
and late nights sitting in the underlight watching
as paint chipped.
We liked to think.
Whittling knives in your back pockets we never sat down we never
gasped too loud we never said things we could take back
except for the monosyllables,
but forget those.
Hillsides afire, a little fire, a little smoke too.
Hillsides still with heat
beneath the snow, a little flinching, a little missing you.
Late nights with phone light and trying to write,
waking up with pen streaks on straw hands and the kerosene
of having been seen;
phone uncharged and notebook open.
We like to think.