By: Savanny Savath, Staff Writer

—

I tell him, I’ll ruin you.

I’ll warp your heart.

But he kisses me and I open

my mouth, Did you

eat oranges today?

He smiles and for half an hour,

I taste the citrus of a day old

orange soda, sticky and flat.

I leave with his black

coffee in a mug, thinking

about the wave of light

that streamed through his window

like your hair under the streetlamp

at midnight; about the day you walked

away in a brown coat and an orange

dress like a dying star

that flares and collapses

into a stellar black hole.

You’re so dense

even in an orange dress

I can’t peel you

off with the label

you hide.

I waited for our coffee

date but your mother was in town

helping you pack up, and I was

matter that didn’t matter.

My fingers are wet

with his coffee spilling over

but all I can see is a supernova

of a memory—

the big bang that never happened

after our first dance. You flung out

of orbit, off axis, breaking our binary.

Alone, I make it home

and empty the mug because

black coffee is like the bitter

Corona you held once before

you turned off the light.

I slice one of the oranges and my finger

is wet again like the carnage of a dying star.