by jessica bixel
We used to have a slow but
speeding stylized sense
of betrayal. When everything meant
a little bit less than it did
yesterday. We wereâ€¦enlightened.
You carried a lighter
in your pocket and never smoked.
You were thatâ€¦poetic.
I never confessed. I stood like birch
trees, peeling in silent worship.
You didnâ€™t like church
so we went driving instead.
You didnâ€™t like summer,
so we stayed home instead.
I slept by the window
and watched the grass burn
when it was too humid to dream.
By fall the ground was
yellow and brown and you had lost
your lighter. Fire was the last
thing to deceive you. Then you moved
away and I lost the hollow
your head left in my pillow. I started
writing again. The whole world
had changed while I was away.