Meet Me Here

Here are the pink things. The rusting, dusty windowsills and the faded flowers. The blood sitting close to the skin of your cheeks. An eyelash sitting there like a cow in a field, reclining. The old papers stuffed haphazardly into a file, and the stickers partially worn away, pieces of glitter and a decade still casting a tiny glimmer across the shelf.

Here are the things that provoke some feeling like happiness, but pressed into a clear plastic folder, taped into a diary. A note. A memo. A gentle question not heard. A question hidden underneath a layer of sand. And the grains that cling to a wet foot go to strange places, just like you. They can't come back. But would you want them to?

It's just you, and the ocean, and a cloud of worry. And me, by the window, rain tumbling and flowers growing thick in the cracks of the brick. Weeds climbing the walls. Fog on my glasses. A condensation that you feel in your chest, like a healthy dog's nose nestled somewhere in there.

Come someday, quickly and at night, like a fox under the stars. They'll be there. They remember. Their sparkles a beacon beckoning us, we'll meet there and trace veins with fire, knuckles with new cold. Blood and blue. Me and you.