Gas Station Manifesto
Turning the pages backward
I find pressed flowers in my old diary
from the day we saw
lavender growing in the woods.
The sun was swallowed by clouds
that were halfway to a metaphor
and you told me the eye color of love
was dark hazel, the very depth of my own.
In a packet of handwritten letters
I find polaroids taken at a cemetery.
I remember I told you when I die
pour hot honey on my grave
to wash away my small-town sins.
Your manifesto,
written in a gas station bathroom:
you mourned never having learned
how to properly smell peonies
and failing to share blood and wine
with people who don’t exist.
You kissed me
and I told you things the moon told me
under streetlights and stars.
You replied if it ever ended
to burn it all.
In my hands I hold a broken promise.
Copyright © Nicole Perkins | Year Posted 2024
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