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.