Every Star Is Contact With Your Body

You showed off a picture that your mom took when you went home to visit her and the dogs. You were sitting in a lawn chair in your garage, your grandpa’s old motorcycle, broken down in the corner next to rusted nails and hammers and a garden hose that was tangled in knots. A red and white banner was pinned to the wall, and I remembered why you are the reason I love the American flag. The blue in the corner is the years I waited for a simple boy to realize I am an unforgettable girl. The red stripes are smiles, making plans three nights in a row, breakfast sandwiches cut in two, half for me and half for you. Every star is contact with your body– my nose on your cheek, your ear on my shoulder, our feet underneath a table, your fingers, my hair. The white stripes are the space where everything began to drift apart, unanswered phone calls, emails never replied, turning around, and walking away. My flag went up in flames as soon as the sun came out for spring, and my bones grow cold at every flag I see hanging from a pole, and if that’s not love, then I must just be alone.

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