by Phoebe Blackman
Photos from a long time ago of
orange paths lit by people smoking outside,
evening windows that disappear the world beyond them.
He and I walking to the edge of the sunset,
trying to catch the moon in our hands, in our hair,
only to watch it scatter across mirrors and metal,
wrinkling over water and waves.
We became two lights on the horizon,
leaving nothing but us
and the stars.
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Phoebe is from Los Angeles. You can read more of her poetry in Soft Union and Do Not Submit.