Missing Your Smile

January 9, 2008
From here I see scattered headbands
and bottles of nail polish in pinks and oranges,
like the route maps at the train station,
color coded and veering in all directions.
Purple star cutouts clinging to the wall,
sparkles reflecting from the light
that enters through the slit blinds.

The last time I saw you smile
was when we pulled the bars from the oven,
baked to a yellow tint,
the sugary lemon flavor tingling our noses,
the wait over.

Outside a blue sedan pulls into your neighbor’s driveway,
the smoke continues to leave the exhaust
as the driver taps his fingers on the steering wheel.

I know you’re thinking of the last time you saw him.
Jake cologne hugging your intertwined hands,
only the dotted sky to distract you from each other.
I wish the paper cutout stars could join the sky and bring him home for you.

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