Stranger, Angel

Don’t,

Please don’t smile at me again.

The sweat on my palm meets the sweat from my glass,

I already know this is doomsday.

Drip, drip, drip, and you’re at it again,

The kind of grin that kindles bones, stop that, mine are fragile,

And charred already, you will find, should I let you closer.

Should I let you closer?

Cocktail umbrellas dot my vision, so many colorful little possibilities.

Will you pick me for my gin and tonic wit,

The licorice bite of absinthe lingering at my edges,

Or am I just the last White Claw at the back of your fridge?

I’d haunt your fridge, if you gave me half the chance.

We’ve all been someone’s ghost before.

I wonder, stranger, angel, have you loved and lost like me?

You must have, with eyes that sad and a smile that bright,

Twin flames and the slash of a knife, be gentle!

Another ample sip of gin, and I can see the flowers you’ll buy me on our first date night, or maybe it’s our last?

I can see your black curls in my lap on the sofa, night’s angel on a field of 70’s plaid.

I can hear your laughter mixed with an overwatched sitcom on tv, intoxicating and familiar,

Could it really be you?

Liquor-tinged ice rattles against my teeth: drip, drip, drip.

The dream begins to melt away, first flowers, then couch, then laughter.

Of course it isn’t you, how could it be? I don’t even know your birthday, your middle name, the foods you don’t eat—not yet.

But I know the dream.

The same that I’ve nursed and repotted and underwatered and overwatered and trimmed back and let grow and you, you, you—your face looks so lovely amid the overgrowth.

I’ve lived through forevers and nevermores, who knows which one you’ll be?

But you’re walking this way.

Lights, camera, doomsday—an angel enters the garden.

Gently, stranger.

There are still thorns in my lungs from the last time,

But I’ll tend to your garden if you tend to mine.