Crystalline drops of conversation hang
from chapped lips, decorating
my chin like a
chandelier.

My mother and father have known about my queerness for about a year now. I wrote a letter to my mom about a girl I was seeing at the time: her soft, lilac hair, auburn at the roots; the melodic breeze of her voice as she sang compliments in German to her runt of a tabby cat;

I wrote an apology to you.I’ve been a bad friend.I miss you. My mother says an illness growsin the heart like homesickness.I worry I will

Januarywalking homefrom your cul-de-sacin the dark When you asked me to danceI said nothingbut took your handanyway The flash of your cameraagainst my eyelidsheat still