I.

It’s only twinges now.

When I mix orange cubes of sweet potato

for hash browns, you materialize

with lanky arms around me and the burbling

pour of black tea into a gold polka dot

mug I gifted you.

I ripped out the dedication page from a book I love

because your name was on it.

II.

Fuzzy peach drunk, you sank to the ground

in a dance for the god of loneliness.

I saw the long bare branches

of winter trees that grew in black soil,

opal pools in the dust of fog. Hair glittered

on your cheeks; I smudged dark lipstick

trying to kiss away my need for you

on someone else.

III.

Our misunderstandings were catastrophe.

IV.

How soft we made each other, once.

___

Kell Xavier is a non-binary writer who likes dandelions, books, and arthouse film. Kell has worked with juice journal and Emerge Literary Journal, and has been published by Stone of Madness Press, juice, Elsewhere, and Whiny Femmes. He lives in Treaty 1 territory.