Romance Poem: Decompression, by Megan Krupa

On our backyard patio,
two white metal-frame chairs,
are lodged into a bed of pebbles.

I watch the ants follow the rusted arteries
to the top before crossing over to the other chair.

It’s funny how a pair of something
Always seemed to make better sense somehow.

Around the violets have begun to sprout.

Their long necks, slumped,
looking for the life of the familiar,
wedged, underground
before they knew

the sun
finishing its final stretch,
toddler-like it makes
itself brilliantly known at its end.

Let the evening find me
not one less second, less wise.

Let me remember the way your knuckles
fold themselves inward when you’re nervous,
the subtle flash of red that graces
the height of your cheek.

Let me remember how much it meant
to mean nothing once.

All the space you’ve left open
for others and never for me.

But tonight, there’s a greenness to the air,
tiny makers of light flicker,

little bodies floating upward,
calling out silently, as only the light can.