I have a blue lit dream of you.

you are cackling bent over the tatters

of a tire

calling me “puddin pop”.

I detest it

and you laugh so hard

your knees buckle.

I shut my mouth tight

and grit my teeth through a smile.

your hands are open

on my thighs

and I rest my head

on the crane of your neck.

we are stranded on the 1-10.

I bore this place in the back

of a diner.

I imagined it the way you imagine

your lungs oxygenating blood

as you’re running,

platelets swelling up

and such.

you have taught me

i can paint a picture with ache,

pulse,

and yearning.

– sheila c.