sophomore

i used to long
for those burnt silences
when you might ask me
to coffee and artistry
and melon french sodas

as if i were
the Next Great Thing

and that sweet air
smelling of
smoke and cedar
hanging between us,
the channel of each
matchstick emotion

struck and sparkling
in me,
and in your scruff and blue eyes

as if art
were the stuff of love
and not
the other way around.