After: New Sublet, Runner

Purple is blossoming across the street and my hands ache to be held in yours. I find it difficult to see the amusement in my skin complementing your favorite flower. Soon enough veins will burst and we will be left drowning— vacillation amongst our will to live. The sky has been grey for ages now. My eyes, my mother’s hair, my favorite shirt, all reflected in fog. How thrilling it must be to have your twisted roots torn each season and placed in safety. Two weeks have passed and purple bloss- oms into red, yellow, fire, danger— contrasted against rain and the death of my umbrella. I think of Vladimir Nabokov: It’s cold today, but in a spring way, and I love you. How the sea- sons make me feel. The first uproot takes place in fall. October ties my ankles and drags me through mud. The second uproot is the hottest of seasons. And the third. And the fourth. Each time I am drenched in irritation. Here the sky is blue, diamond, ocean, sapphire. Streets fill with scuffle and my boxes rip more than not. It is a strange affliction— getting addicted to starting all over again. My hands ache still.

— ODH