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Irregular Symmetry

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Some days the sun is a swollen

head in the sky, watching as we walk the

block in circles, tracing the line between 

green grass and white cement, frying 

us like leftovers in a pan, charred and

bound for waste.

My eyes are half lit, glazed with the maple

syrup honey light of a dying sun in a dying

world living a dying life. My hair is damp

and the chlorine has my skin spongy and

when we climb into the car we end up

driving in circles on the same streets all

night long. 

You pointed at the moon as it emerged, 

a graceful dancer, a ballerina in the symphony

of stars in the sky, ripe and yellow. The sunset

had striped the sky pink and purple over the

ocean, and the night was television fuzzy bruising

the day until it was black and blue and aching

with the new winds and the cooler air, the spell

fading away. 

It matters how we hold hands and how we touch

feverish lips in the backseat of my mother’s car 

and how high in the sky the sun was when you

first said I love you and the shirt I wore on our

first date might smell like you even though that was 

the latest part of autumn and this is fresh summer,

raw and glowing and pulsing. Our hearts are tiny

mechanical rabbits pitter-patter-pitter-pattering beneath

the bumpy jump of skin and bone and they are the

strongest part of our body and that is why we follow

them despite their silly rabbit feet. They are stronger

than the sun and more modest than the moon.

Summer fell like lead and tasted like sun-warmed wine

and felt like straw grass and rolled and rocked us safe

to sleep beneath striped sunsets. Summer was our

sidewalk and our street and our car crash. I told you I

would love you forever, once.