when we met as fledgeling adolescents on that solstice day,

the lake was blue--

no, grey--

no,

the color of bitter

the kind that seeps in through our skin

the kind widows and young mothers wring from each other’s bones

yet as i stand before you

my lipstick stains red against the paleness of your cheek

 

the spectrum of yearning always falls

between two extremes

there’s the way i yearned when

we both had dirt-caked heels and waterlogged bones and

there’s the way you yearned in

the backseat of a stranger’s car so

many years later

and you were no better at telling me than

i was at telling you but

the movement of your body was expressive to suffice

 

yes, on the day we met the lake was grey

or maybe blue

but my lipstick is red

and

i can taste frosting at the corner of your mouth.