I brought your mom a flame-red star
held in moist, green arms
the night we played in your old room like teens.
The next day we walked blind on the cold sand, talking
as waves and wind met.
And the sea birds tip-toed past us.
You spoke of your past as if it were still alive with him.
He was sick and that's what made him do it. Those times.
Your eyes still saw him in my face,
your arms held him tangled in me.
Did my kiss ever touch your lips?
The bromeliad will last longer than I.
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