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A poem of early-stage high-grade Boston love sage
Carla.
A name she created for herself; a name I cared for on no one else.
Sticked lips stuck to a straw.
Her aesthetics like athletics.
We walked arm in arm to her Downtown Crossing hostel after the cinema.
Trouble on the streets cares not about first dates.
Then, a new Symphony apartment she shared with the tall girl from work.
“It’s funny we’re cuddling and haven’t even kissed yet,” she observed.
Finite time together filled with forever.
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I’d spend the night; I’d’ve spent my life.
I was reeling, self-destructing for no reason; dying inside like the leaves of that season.
Not the first or last I’d ask myself what was the matter?
Jessica soon after, and then Nikita despite our laughter.
But Carla? She was on it. Kept me the safest.
She held me close and spoke in notes of quotes and dreamed spaces.
I left our city and came back on a mission; storming every corner to meet her conditions.
When I returned, she was gone; still here but moved on.
Finally aware of the light inside her dawn.
A raised glass and fallen tear to reminisce on our moments.
Thick black glasses and ponytail tight.
I’m proud of you, Carla; keep going.
