I’m sat on the other side of the earth,
the ground still warm in the twilight.
The stars are lighting up this midnight
mountain town like a fairground.
I don’t entirely trust in this valley
or these mountains with their
summits that trick the eye
and draw you in like a midge
to a flickering light.

(I hate how every poem I write
Is about you on some level.)

Let me begin.
The scent of pine and embers
winds between the creaking lines
of cabins.You can hear the dread
in the faded pastel fronts,
each remembering the taste
of the October snows.
The lumberjack hands on my waist,
swinging my hips to the beat
of a jukebox dented with
twenty years worth
of bronzed southern belles
and their chipped, checkered
princes. Princes with their bruises
and the way they always
smell of the earth.

All of those parts of this little
mountain town
remind me of you.

(none of it should be yours.)

I think you’ve infected every
stream, hidden deep in the winter
snow banks, waiting for the
Spring melts to carry you
Through every icy outlet.

The mountains are calling me,
and I must go. Please don’t look
for the stars I follow, or the trees
I’ll carve with your name.