we only spoke once: outside of his apartment,
i was twenty three and wore big earrings and
said words like “presumptuous” because i
thought that’s what all lawyers were supposed
to say, and you were lovely, your eyes the color
of sea grass with copper and raw honey, your
hands held a cigarette and i watched your mouth
open and close with every exhale, you were
leaving to Brazil or Madrid for another one of
your photography trips, i asked if you knew you
always wanted to take pictures of blue birds
and white mountains and you laughed and
asked if i always was so direct and so fucking
beautiful underneath the burning moon, i was
appalled and told you that the moon wasn’t
on fire, it had no reason to burn, and you told me
that your palms were on fire when you accidentally
touched my thigh at the dinner table, and you had
no reason to be burning, but fucking hell, i set you
on fire

i know you think of me on nights like this  (via irynka)

(via backshelfpoet)