I Remember You Smelling Like Cinnamon
By Ari Eastman
The first night we are together, we crack open our ribcages like Russian nesting dolls, and I drink up the darkness that spills from yours.
Black licorice lips, ours is an acquired taste. I remain unafraid
of how it will burn when it comes back up. It always comes back up.
You reach out under hollow moons with calluses on your fingers
catching the two lone fireflies I keep in my chest. You ask if you can keep one
I give you both.
I always give you both.