red lights 

                       run–through foggy nights dripping

                a million pieces cut 

                                          supercuts superglued hot breaths   

      can’t remember can only feel seatheaters and 

deep blue 

                                arctic wind crawling down 

                my neck raised skin sending chills into fingertips 

                                        my fingers in his frosted tips the frost 

                     on the tips of his headlights beaming across chapped lips 

yellow 

      hair. blonde boys thick strands 

                            stranded in a fraction of golden memory

                and how much he actually cared lost 

                                   in the quotient of curled chest hairs questioning how much was taken 

in those green 

                     eyes I can’t see but can never quite unsee 

       an empty field so wide I still can’t find him unless 

                                                I look less and remember the radio playing

                            me when I looked into those emerald studded eyes pupils polished stones swirling black 

                how I long for him 

                            to still text me tells me that he 

     feels it too when lying still in the darkness enshrouded 

                                        by me by him by reminiscence still next to me 

                when my eyes close and I can’t see–that 

                            it was always 

                                          us

Matthew Buxton