HIS

There’s a change in the crisp September air.

He doesn’t notice her. Not until he’s caught her shoulder with his own.

She makes him feel saccharine sweet and syrup sticky, like the summer days will last forever and the flowers he’d given her won’t wilt, no, like love letters slipped under pillows and perfume that winds its way around his collar, his mind, his heart.

She’s the sun, Juliet, hanging off the balcony; grass crunching underfoot and monogrammed doilies and rose petal smiles. All soft edges and sultry, summer days and all his.

He thinks that she fits him like a puzzle piece.

Light shone through a prism to reflect a rainbow.

Nebulas hanging in space without a cord.

They don’t call it love – But he can’t think of any other word for it.


There’s a change in the cold September air.

He notices her. Is careful to angle his shoulder away from her when she passes him in the corridor, to not repeat history.

She makes him feel nostalgia faded and melancholy heavy, like winter days will dwindle into darkness and the flowers he’d given her had wilted, yes, like unsent letters slipped under pillows and perfume that he thinks he can still smell sometimes.

She’s the perforating tip of an arrow. She’s poems that have long since faded into the page, love songs that don’t really make sense; shadows cast against the wall and grainy photographs and the lines that used to cloud the edges of his mouth from laughing. She’s not his.

He thinks that she fits him like a puzzle piece.

Light shone through a prism to reflect a rainbow.

Nebulas hanging in space without a cord.

They don’t call it love – Not anymore.