shitty
"but it's something about
the names of stars, you know?"
I am pressuring him
to be excited; he is not
excited
but he smiles.
half-bare bushes, the heavy sweetness of dying flowers.
this was ours, once
this strange little garden,
in july of 2001.
I lift my hand
to trace orion;
he traces the bones in my wrist.
he pulls me to him,
blades of grass scratching my cheek
I'm still searching for the pleiades
as his mouth opens.
he is pressuring me
to be excited;
I am not excited
but I smile.