the metallic rocks lay bare at the base of the cliff,
curving and climbing into a gazebo over our heads.
you tucked your elbows into each other
like the beginning of a nursery rhyme,
watching the saltwater sneak up like a prayer,
a half-formed dream, a wishbone left
unbroken because we had everything
we might’ve bothered asking god for.
so what’s god? what’s a ghost?
well, i’m singing about how you’re always on my mind,
but not like elvis or willie nelson did,
there’s a break in my voice because i’m sixteen and
this is my first ever spring; i’m staring at a sparrow
coming out of its cove like it’s the dawn of creation.
what’s god? what’s a ghost? what’s a church when
the lights are off and the congregation’s home and
they blew the candles out so all that’s left is the
sunlight streaming through stained glass?
i want to remember this with a pair of rose-tinted
glasses gentle on the edge of hope, a battleground for
invention. tell me, what made the grass rife with colour
and what gave me the courage to kiss the corner
of your mouth and who, who, who told me that
tenderness resists the act of being condensed into
a line? despite not knowing the answer i kept saying
‘this is not a move’ and i tucked your hair behind your
ear before moving closer and laughing when you
touched me. when i was younger i used to place my finger
on the moon’s image out the car window and say it was
following us like my gaze follows the slope of your hands.
and i keep asking what’s a god? what’s a ghost? what’s the
moon murmuring as it sits against the window?
i put a name to it and it loses its glory. i put words in
someone else’s mouth and they come out bitter like
fennel and a dried out mandarin. i’m the writer
but you hold me and i’m at a loss for words—
i’m an overwrought romantic comedy’s third act cliché
—i’m trying so hard to make this holy that i forgot
my head on your chest was enough.
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