I blinked and said my silent thanks to the stars
for giving you a receding hairline and bloodshot eyes:
subtle signs you weren’t actually perfect,
and I ate my dinner with you in more peace
than the very few texts it took to plan.
But that was a dying wish.
The stars couldn’t long betray that
you and I have a little of the same dust within us.
Your eyes aren’t bloodshot, but blue,
and your hair would be perfect with my fingers in it.
When I kneeled at your bed it was equal parts
comfort, a rest for my form,
and hope that you would cave in on yourself
looking so closely at what couldn’t be.
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Sarah Durrand is a poet based in San Diego, CA. In her spare time, she enjoys reading, rollerblading, and talking about the birds that come to her feeder.