a pitch too high for the ear to hear,
whites of your palms are smooth stones
finished attempts to communicate.
Days that moved like honey, Polaroid snippets, we shove them in our pockets only to forget and find them later.
that feel like college, kindergarten, or seeing your mother first
thing in the morning, fresh bread and unbridled laughter.
you say i have a good mouth
it is only good when it is with yours.
breath hot on my lips.
what we build.
what we felt. That immediacy of the flesh, the urge to
Never retracing the patterns that leave small tokens of existence behind,
which litter a bed of pale sand
say you as well. Glad to have made its acquaintance, happy
friends become uncomfortable when I tell them he's leaving. They
ask me have I tried to work it out
Copyright 2009, Erika Moya. © This work is protected under the U.S. copyright laws. It may not be reproduced, reprinted, reused, or altered without the expressed written permission of the author.
Erika Moya's work has previously appeared in Qaartsiluni, The Smoking Poet, The Holly Rose Review, Toronto Quarterly, and Mosaic: Art and Literary Journal of the University of California Riverside. She is a native of Los Angeles and currently attends the MFA program at the University of North Carolina Wilmington.