Aurora Borealis

Kate Ransom
You once told me of the large window 
near your bed. 
How a boy with wild hair
placed his hands on the sill and jumped
until he landed in your pillows – you two were
tangled in blankets and love     

honey lights from his eyes 
lingering in your lungs because you breathed it all in.
Choked on mouthfuls.

I want to see you below the northern lights,
he said to you that day. 

His fingers traced your skin, drew
constellations over your freckles.

l picture your face – breathless, childlike, 
eyes smiling like crescent moons.
when you two huddled close
below the moonlight
did the wind go quiet and still? 
Did you fall asleep 
because the world stops breaking
when you’re with him? 

Your words were dry syllables, 
harder than our cracked floorboards.

you said: things change.
you said: there’s no use pining.

But you hurry to your couch every 
weekend, an old polaroid
in your phone case. Romance films hum
behind the tv-screen and I imagine
you see his face in every kiss scene, 
hear his laugh in every hollywood smile,
notice his glow in every sunset, not quite 
as bright as the northern lights
he took you to those years ago.