by Chloe N. Clark

when I wanted you, I
wanted you in pieces of color
like cloths being cut for patterns,
like pieces of quartz ground down and
mixed with glue, spread across my skin
until I hardened like cicada husks thinking
I belonged as part of you.
when I wanted you, I
wanted  the taste of your
skin on my tongue, you tasted like
the air in summer, heavy and warm
and salty-sweet, lemonade and sweat, like
river water on my lips after I almost
failed to breathe underwater and after I spat it
out, the final splashes tasted cool.
when I wanted you, I
wanted you as weight, as heat, as
the feel of your hands, the way that the lines
of your palm once pressed into my skin, left
marks of where our lives were supposed to lead,
like the railroad tracks that stretch out of
town and like the way that when I break
open my skin it leaves color in lines
across the sheets, as red, as red, as
red as you