by Victoria Tan
Weekly trips to C-Town strike me
weak to the tips of my toes.
Fruits line aisles, same old Dido song
clawing its way out of overhead speakers.
Melancholy nips my skin.
I hear the tumble of fresh granny smiths
dancing on asphalt,
that sticky September afternoon.
A cacophony of city lights.
In between who we were and what we are.
Laughter gurgles.
Watermelons and cantaloupes cascade down streets,
past your fingers – yes
that would be the gentlemanly thing to do.
Kind eyes. I wonder
if we’ve met a while ago.
You and your sand-colored beanie,
that one-sided dimple,
a favorite red flannel shirt rolled just at elbows,
those tattered navy Keds,
an old guitar slung lazily beside your smile.
A summer on spindles,
we’re wrapped together in your warmest sweater,
and I don’t see an end.
Seagulls, sunsets, caramel,
strawberries on my lips,
like children after a carnival.
Home is where we’re
leafing through those yellow novels
in shared denim, on soft pillows,
cooking pasta, making music,
hung over on hilarity while we’re young and carefree.
I start to breathe to your heart’s beat;
your warmth makes this simple.
We’re living on clouds and constellations
and for the moment we’ll forget.
Back in this reality, I
hope to catch a glimpse of us
amidst the peaches and the pineapples.
Falling, even now,
and I’d rather you not catch me.
