Moss

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.