my hair feels dirty
like cheap plastic grass
and your voice making its way
to me through the haze
of burning houses and high notes

isn't desperate in the slightest.
we lie on painted picnic tables
pointing out constellations,
slowly finding smiles in the stars:

i want to cry, because looking at you
all of us, shining under this february sky
and pools of yellow streetlight

i am the happiest i have been
since a scene like this months and months ago
when the air was hot and deep breaths
took in the scent of rain,
when we were intoxicated with love,
free, and choking on chocolate ice cream and laughter.

in the spirit of denial, truthful and lovely,
i do not want you,
cannot have you,
and i do not lie when i say this is more than enough.