If your eyes cracked
will they leak
the landscape?
Or refract
your sunflower eyes
to yet another blue winter
in this city?
This tent was meant for two.
But once your hand stopped
gripping the spray can,
I knew you didn't love me anymore.
I told you
that I only talk so much
because I was trying to
replicate what a single
touch could do.
To remind you.
To pause you.
Because this blue winter
would pass too.
You broke up with me,
over and hour ago and
it's still snowing.
Your knit hat is wet, because
you won't come inside.
This tent was meant for two.
I remind you of this.
But only a small pass of breath
continues to escape from you.
I try to remind you of the Lost Coast.
Of the drift wood.
Of the lighthouse.
Of those stars.
But I hadn't realized
that I was turning blue too.
In the morning, the city
had swallowed you whole.
Leaving your lips blue.
And me,
with a tent for two.
-sonja lynn mata
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