Crystal J. Hoffman

Clumsy—I lick honey off plastic
bottle-tops and let my tea steep too long
like every other flame, to watch the steam rise,
obsessive about the night—with callused
feet walking across cold city pavement,
I let you stare at me in the orange street-light glow,
unconcerned with how ugly it must make me.

Though I know I’ll never be your hyacinth girl,
your simple push-button solitude will
grow old, leave you dead-note weighted,
a punk boy losing hair, and when you ask
me the end, I’ll simply stand, with sore lips
to watch you sink into asthma black.

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