By Hillary Fink
most nights I like to remember you like the night I first met you,
my mind painted with your silhouette as you sat across the fire, the sweet smooth liquor, leaving behind its remnants on our lips
the goose bumps that crept up my arms, prompting you, without hesitation, to envelope my body in yours
only to quickly be displaced with black and blue, and in the morning forgotten; soon after soaked with strong espresso and cracked lips.
sometimes I like to picture you that night in the field, as we drove side-by-side along the dirt road. Your laugh hollow and raw as the ripples in the road shook the car.
how we gathered amongst the sunflowers - competing with the moonbeams and the dark haze, you filled the infinite space.
with your beer soaked fingers, you combed the darkness for my limbs, laboring an unknown puzzle,
that with time ensued a force that you exerted with an unwavering confidence , and with the steadiness of your hands, they told me you did this before
and as the wind and the cicadas collided in melody, my words and air lost their place. trapped in a home you assembled for me.
sometimes I can't help but remember that night at your house, as we waited to fold into the new year, and you poured that cheap vodka into my cup —allowing it to pool over the edges, wanting the excess to make its presence
and as your hands searched for mine, missing, tangling my hair in coils, erupting words that crisped and turned, calling upon an anger that held you, deep and bound, turning atoms into a mustard gas of your emotions,
leaving me broken and naïve, as I searched for a premise
But most nights I like to remember you the way I first met you