The Shade of the Ocean

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.