there is no sweetness here. artificial sugar in your tea. that armrest that holds you in your seat as she drives you out. that hole in your tooth hiding all your darkest secrets. you don’t see this color in the winter. you only see white. and it soon fades to grey, and then eventually black. exhaust trailing from cars like sentences you can’t finish. the building tops hidden in the clouds like your hands deep in those jean pockets. those birds that fly against the wind must be as tired as I am. their wings flutter but they don’t move forward. i like to pretend each paved street holds an older one below it. like how your body renews itself every seven years. my tires haven’t driven on this street before. just like how your fingertips haven’t burned this new skin. i like to pretend my fingers are tools to the map of your back. i trace my way across your soft landscape. from every freckle and scar. each rolling shoulder blade and that mountain range of a spine.