She blames herself for the battles;
I blame myself for the war.
A silent night in the desert,
we meet where the four states patch together
like pieces of an intricate jigsaw puzzle—
slightly worn edges, tattered; blood soaks the dirt.
I kiss her little finger as she sleeps;
the secret stills the voices
of past regrets. “Let’s go
to the Grand Canyon,” she whispers.
I’m content in our isolation,
yet she always tries to escape the sun.
“Let’s go to San Francisco,” she pleads.
She wants to jump from her
pretend dreams. I take her
to the corners—bend her hands
and feet to the obsolete ground.
“You’re in four places at once.”
She dares to dream of shared footprints—
weeping at the imaginable idea.
She blames herself for the wilting flowers;
I blame myself for the desolate drought.
