We were going to play a game–
Give each other a person
To turn into a poem.
We scoured the air outside with
With eyes and I found her–
She deserved to be our subject.
She was was a writer herself
With notes and strings
And words that go
With gray mornings, perfect
Against the brightness
Of work. At home
Against all these conversations
That don’t know her name–
Bright flame in this darkness–
Yellow shirt, loud aura
In the Twilite that is not real.
It is night time, late. My friend
And I thought we had felt
All there was to feel in this day–
And then we saw you.
When I was breaking up with her,
the first few cracks of us splintered up and around our bodies, climbed down
her long red hair like Rapunzel hellbent
on her own undoing. I propped
your vinyl up on display as if to say
lay me to waste in the study
with the record player, leave me
with Sarah who knows I’m a sucker,
who knows I’d rather be sad
than apologize, than caulk the old
holes in us–
that from here, it’s prettier
to watch it burn than to mend
the broken hem, that I’d rather watch
things with exoskeletons crawl out
of what we left to neglect,
hope that kind of armor serves
them better than it did
you or I.
A. R. Rogers