a poem i’ve wanted to write

i only notice that my fingers are yellow and your body is blackened
when you bring your lighter to my mouth.
and i want to describe it
before your body is no longer warm, but i don’t know how
but maybe it’s okay because your body will always be and
why did i have to bring up the cold again. i’m sorry
i keep mentioning the fall

i had a poem that i wanted to write. but i met you
and left my notebook in a box i buried
on the underside of a bridge
there is a note with a boy in my phone whose face has been rearranged
more times than i could count. the sun burns the pages on your book
and you ask me to kiss you where your skin is red and i hesitate
because i don’t want you to get better

i have a dream written in a box that i buried next to the farm,
where the cattle trample us. we are laying in the dirt of the forest
with my bones crushed into yours,
and i tell you what i would write about this moment
and how i would describe you in the poem
before our bodies become moss

your skin is peeling on your nose and you’ve spilled ink all over your body
and i can’t tell
if you drive as if you are already dead or you want to live
but you will stop and lay on the sand with me
and throw cherries in your vodka because you thought
i was drunk off a shirley temple when i borrowed your shoes
to run out of the bar in new york because i thought
i saw a green light in your eyes at the beach
when you asked if i will still be there when the winter comes