Sta.sh
Somewhere on a silent hill,
where tree roots crinkle through stone
and a lonely crow melts into bone,
my left hand turns pink and blue
holding onto a cigarette I named after you;
and once before on this quiet hill,
when it was just as cold
and our bodies were just learning
how to fold
into the shape of something new,
I never thought I would have to think of us
in terms of two -
but now this hill screams
with a bitter wind
that blows both hands
into my empty pockets,
and I realize that this cigarette
will taste better
as soon as it feels like home.
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Excellent work,
Tristan Cody.