Maze

By Alicia Turner

Illustration by Isabella Mac Giolla Ri

I counted the stars after you left and there were exactly ten

that rivalled the streetlights. I fought you all the way back,

only to taste

humidity’s cruelty. Only to taste

you. You’re more or less more than you were,

then, you spoke in

riddles. I would have never bet against

you. Winter’s vein. You,

smack on the wrist. I was terrified of you leaving

then, you spoke in

spit strings. And lust. And pocket change.

Lint-locked lips. Someone told me, once, that men like you grow backwards into boys

in closets,

somewhere locked

behind your key. ‘Sorry’ was too many summer moons ago. I wanted to harvest your halo and

hold hands with your hooded sweatshirt.

I ached for symmetry so much that I became the line I crossed.

And you became the burden of blue smoke,

seldomly striking a match.