We were never going to grow old together

or tuck each other into forever’s linen quilt:

instead, we decided to glide the golden haze

into our twenty-somethings—loose in love.

            You cleaned early ice off my car into

            shattered chunks at your bootless feet

            while I slept two cycles past a haloed alarm.

            When the weekend came we’d drink & leave

            the gay bars like spilt glitter on each other’s arms.

I wanted to grow with you. Up—

into the something we found in the clouds

on that May morning when you drew

me from the sheets to ride a patchwork balloon,

a woven basket the broken veil beneath our feet.

            In a blanched field we landed—hard. Reaching

            for the other, because what else was there?

___

Molly Davidson (she/her/hers) is a lesbian artist, writer, and river runner. She lives on the land of Arapahoe, Ute, and Cheyenne people, also known as Denver Colorado. Currently, she is an MFA student at Sarah Lawrence College. Previously her work has appeared in Rust & Moth, American Chordata, and Stain'd Magazine.