Thursday

Do you think about me…

When the sun burns like dying embers along the horizon and you tip rose between your lips? And for a moment you’re back at the River, with cherry stained fingers and butterflies…
Does a ghost of me sit next to you resting her chin on your shoulder, on a night so goddamn clear, you can feel infinity staring back?
Who turned on the moon?
Is there ever a morning where the warm sun drapes gently on your skin and for a fraction of a second, the weight of mine rests across your chest.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Gone.

All doesn’t feel fair in love and war and how you’re still twisted in my memories, like overgrown ivy on abandoned houses.

Because to me, there are still moments where black coffee tastes like our lazy Sunday mornings and my lips yearn for honey kisses.
When something as simple as peanut butter on spoons brings my legs over yours and debating what hue of yellow looks better in a farmhouse kitchen.
It’s still pastel sunshine babe.
And the breath that catches in my chest after an icy plunge will always remind me of the breath that came as I followed you blindly into the glacial stream, skin electric under the cold, under your touch, under it all.

But you are not ivy.
And I am not a house.

There’s no ghost of me or lips dripping sweet honey.
For a graceless second I’m tangled, but it’s only just that. My Thursday carries on and gray wispy clouds coat the night, whisking away infinity and turning the rose sour.