By Alexandra Smereka
While waiting for you, I put my hands in my pockets, heavy with change as if I’m not already different.
Sorrow-thinned lips like a line drawn in the sand or in the snow or on my hand with your callused fingers still soft and we’re both changing.
Colors outside are too bright for this revelation.
We think of the past as if we haven’t lived it yet, as if the soft fragments are part of the quilt you plan to sew and not the splinter I couldn’t grasp for a week.
The future is an impatient dream, and I wake with one eye open to cranberry sunlight on a frosted windowpane just like the stoplight you didn’t see last winter.
And suddenly the colors inside are too bright, the air too heavy to breathe, and I pull the quilt tighter around me as my vision splinters and I imagine I feel your weight next to me. Alexandra Smereka is studying English and Music at Wayne State University and has been thrice published in the Wayne Literary Review.