I close my eyes
I swear I can almost feel you here —
warm breath against my neck,
your hand closing over mine.

I spoke your name to the night
and the cicadas went quiet,
as if they knew it belonged to me alone.

Above the oaks
the stars and moon shine bright,
and I ache to know if you see them too.

I write your name in the dust on my window,
watch it run when the storm rolls in,
like the way you slip through my fingers
between one day and the next.

Even the river looks restless, curling dark like a cottonmouth.

I wonder if water remembers
every hand it has ever held—
and if it longs for them,
the way I long for you?

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𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤

Pretty words for ugly things.

• Buried Correspondence
• Poetry
• Stories

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