Behind a sinking, healthy & back-lit sun
A sort-of-game played with your feelings
That is why you are this person.
One team wore white, like brides & napkins
Their lips shimmered dully
an aversion to thorns.
A second team is everything the first team could only hope to be
The team loves you, and their hearts match their red socks
and the way they held you
and still getting dust in your eyes
the sand kicked up to last, and last, and last…
You can’t imagine how they loved you into becoming this person.
Your split-lip self was a consolation prize
& You were not supposed to go down like that
& You are turning to face me in the library
And you do not show your face
it clings fast to your skull
your hand curling out of a cloak
into begging & being
the bloated fingers
of a man
who’s blue hand
has been swimming for days.