Pink, like the blanket under my pillow.
The cream cheese frosting he would twirl on the white-wood table, 1999,
baby hands and bad aim.
He got a little better by 2014,
but shot all his sprinkles in the right direction
with the wrong intentions.
Hitting lips and missing hearts.
Editing feelings as though he had the copyright.
He wiped her heartache on the windshield,
but, I swear, I warned him not to be the guy that tastes everybody's X's and nobody's O's.
They're less lovely when apart.
X: must-not-be-named
O: the infinities
X: he cut you off his list
O: a lookalike for 0.
X: white chalk cross-outs
O: using red pen in case he ever forgets you.
Red, like the bouquet of roses Harrison Brimley isn't sending me for the first time in 3 years.
Red like the little flags that scoured our battle fields.
Red like the streetlights we ignored.
Red like him,
white like him,
black like him.
Black like midnight,
a shade beyond navy,
when it's dark enough to X and O without seeing the pitch signal.
(It's a curveball, darling)
When it's cold enough to start counting.
Cold, the opposite of his hands.
R, the letter we forget in FebRuary.
February, when everything's red.
February, when everything's dead.
Today.
Tomorrow.
Thursday.
Writing X's and O's on our paper hearts
like paper dreams
with paper endings
because there's 24 hours of love today,
but paper
lasts a little bit
longer.
xoxo,
A
that last part. mmmmhhmmm. *snaps*
ReplyDelete