One week crying and four months later by Becca Harrington

Today we lost each other,
found silhouettes at sunset and remembered
we don’t know how to smile.
And you’ll smoke every Friday, with a brunette bound
to your eyes, but still remember me
in coffee rings and autumn sun.

I’ll hurt for longer than I need,
cling to wildflowers until salt soaks my cheeks.
I’ll find a body to hold me,
kiss me under heavy heat.

We’ll find small talk again in winter,
and one of us is lying.
I’m cold while you burn.
We never speak again.

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