I remember how honeysuckle

grew behind swings

we once took turns reaching the tip

where sun and metal greet.

A break from who we were,

your hands pressed against my back,

and we ached for the unknown.

The gravel-waves,

our metal respite and pretend-home,

now sail through time alone.

The honeysuckle is a specter

that tastes cold

like a stone.

I see your face in rays of gold

and hear your voice as nectar.

What was your prized possession?

The ring of twig and pistil

I forged in March

or the bugbox?

Ladybugs

imprisoned yet loved.

And as you lay lost on cotton waves,

I become a ladybug

and as my wings caress your cheek,

fingers travel lightly

above bruised lips.

Your breath halts under my hand –

our pyre’s lifespan.