i left when you wanted me to,
when your two bare hands evicted me
with little more than neon
pumping through your veins.
you sat me young and round
on a throne made of newspaper
where at high tide i faded to ashes
and the shade of the ocean.
but you saved my breath
and scrawled out my name
when delicate hues of mother earth
curved like horseshoes over our heads.
what conditions were placed
in my unknowing fist,
still pink and porcelain?
the fluorescents must have blinded me.
for ages you fashioned me a
crown of roses and watched them die,
every petal leaving with a quiet thunder
that scratched another notch within reflection’s view.
the garden you’d dug
when i was a seed
flourished and fell and you grew bored,
caring for such an unpredictable crop.
so as the storms raged i was flooded out
while you held tightly to
washed up polaroids
folded hastily into a pocket of your jeans.
like sad confetti in a dresser drawer
i sprinkle newspaper reminders on strands of your hair
when you aren’t looking,
you’re never looking.