Two days. Three moments.
Your shadow cast far and cold as ice.
Your light eyes, nearly blue—a sin, if you will: missing the mark—graze the surface of me so thinly, it’s as if you have no recollection of who I am, who I was.
Blue as ice burning through me.
Blue is the hottest color, they say.
I reach to turn the knob in the morning.
I am quenched for the warmth of the time I knew with you.
What I would give to light the flame for the kettle,
to draw shear drapes before tall windows,
to stick my hand into your pocket,
releasing a note,
to leave the bed undone all day.
I’d drink each of your habits.
I’d forgive your eyes for being nearly blue.
I’d mend the wound of the burn.
One day. One moment.
Your shadow cast close and warm over my lazy body.