Tangerines

i.
roses and roses,
that’s all you see. 
you laugh at the way
the moon rises —
so romantically. 
letters and 
sweaters,
dreams and 
cloudy streams. 
you look like the sunrise —
you look like the sea. 

ii.
i lost you 
on a sunny day. 
the clouds parted,
and you flew away. 
floors of daisies
and handfuls of almonds
are all you left 
behind. 

iii. 
leather books on shelves
keep me company. 
a caged bird is singing,
begging to be free. 
but i don’t think about 
all that i’ve missed. 
instead i stack jars
of honey against the 
walls of my room.

iv.
he gave me
a basket of tangerines. 
we laughed 
(and i cried)
until he said goodbye.  
but i wrote my
way out. 

v.
i don’t think i miss
baskets of tangerines
or old, wrinkled maps
of the world. 
i don’t think i miss
my thudding heart
or burning cheeks. 

vi. 
warm summer days
and twinkling nights
bury and burrow 
themselves into 
the tips of my fingers. 
so i 
bury
and burrow 
myself into 
the tips of my fingers. 
i don’t climb out that often. 

vii. 
i kept the basket of tangerines. 
i planted one
in a shed behind a house. 
i know that’s not how you’re
supposed
to do it. 
but i wanted to see
a tree grow out of 
a whole fruit. 

so i kept the basket of tangerines.