Another year for yearning, a third and more importantly a hopeful last. You sit within the median, content to stay, content to go. Let me empty my pockets of all my coins in the name of your name. Your laugh circles my brain like Saturn’s rings, and the maroon of your lips and hair strike me like a lusty Venus, but your emergence in late July makes you a vixen of the sun. How foolish I was to think a star could burn out in three years time. Your blistering love turned my skin from translucent sleet to a star burned, sweat marked crackling epidermis. As I attempt to spackle the gaping cuts, I hear Leonard Cohen’s “Anthem”, “There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in”. I fear you’ve marked me eternally, as I’m yet to wake to a day where the sun hasn’t risen. In a year’s time when you leave the snowy walks in the woods and the trees rampant with cardinals, keep every trinket I’ve given you in your satchel. As you weave your way through iron and steel arms up-stretching from the earth, I hope you save a sliver of your heart for me.
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