i could make sparks with
my own body, in the dark
rubbing my legs together under
the winter blankets,
i turned on the lights.
the second time:
i fumbled for the switch
and stumbled back to you,
laying on top of a pile of dirty laundry.
i made small flames with my palms,
wishing you were less than setting suns.
later as i watch you
peel carrots and crack eggs
systematically placing them in the trash,
like if snowcaps were isotopes,
i wish that you were thinking about me.
but you are an eerie glow
and i am finally happening.
Meghan Milsted lives in Buffalo, NY by way of Gaithersburg, Maryland.