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.

Kasy is a junior creative writing student with a minor in literature. She is  the current Production Manager of, Polaris Literary Magazine. She is published in Polaris, and has a forthcoming poem to be published in the SucarnocheeReview.