I stand beneath the glow of a streetlamp, scuffed up from where I had dragged a jagged edge of a rock against it.
Our initials are mossy and grey, but I know they're there. Embedded in my fingertips and bleeding green in my marrow.
The streetlamp winks at me, and I think of you.
One eye is forever half-shut, from scraping your face against pavement as a kid.
I sort of feel like I've been dragged along the hot concrete, too.
My skin is raw in this air-- leftover memories burning my lungs,
everything tender from the press of your nails.
I thought you would kiss crescent-- but you dug in, and tore me apart.
I think I may stand here a little while longer, if you'd like to visit.
One day flowers may sprout where the moss has taken root.