Magic Hour

March 14, 2018

we were a polaroid that summer—

sun drunk smiles blurring the

corners of the half-finished

three-by-three mural.

you said you loved me under

cross-stitched stars and the tick

of fireflies, tongue curled

around the words like the first

peach of summer.

i believed you in the curve of your neck

and the scar by your eyebrow,

underneath the cry of the whippoorwill.

magic hour you called it,

flocks of cicadas spinning phrases—

the leaving sound—

but you stayed, wheel-spoke ankle hooked

around mine.

listen, you said, and we lay, quiet,

breathing to the lonely song of mimics.

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