By Tia Ramos
The sun is falling down again.
You’ve always said dusk is the loneliest time of day.
Your skin reflects like construction paper
as you reach for the strings
and off you bounces only sound now—
the kitchen clang of the shades, my cough at the dust
that fell in fright on the backs of your forearms
and we sleep, once again, past our loneliness.
What are you dreaming of?
I’m dreaming of the nights warm with your glass & smoke,
of my desperation, of giving your roommate a show in my sleep
of you, my darling
my paper man, every marble
from paddling your soft feet to sleep.
I’m seeing a lake of ink behind the sun, and why won’t you join me?
We’ve never been here before, you say
And I see, I’ve become a leaf
And god I wish you could float, inside
With me, because the sun is showing
Me all of your pores, unfilled and I wish
For it to stop, stop,
stop snoring you whisper.
And dusk has not left.
And now it seems that every flower I see,
opening to the sun, thinks only of the shade.