Sarah Brockhaus

Perennial

My eyelids collapse
against each other and your body forms

flowers in the home-made dark, whispering
their way out of the romance novels I used to

strain my eyes reading. Now I spend my nights
reading you. Let me graft myself

to your floral, braid you into
me. Let me keep this, please. Futures

feel futile anyway, forget
the living room and my hands in
my own hair, your feet finding their way
to the door. Forget the words

I let slip, how we unsolidify
ourselves to become a solution. Forget
how I try to write a poem you can read
and it always cripples itself

into this. Be lips. Be liquid. Be love. You are
rooted into place. Maybe I drench myself
in disbelief just to swim in the same pond,
maybe the window stays open all night,

maybe I never yell, maybe the bed doesn’t ache
and you reach back for me. Hold me
to you and I’ll inherit the aching. We never can
tangle ourselves in a way that won’t be

unwound. I kiss you and you turn to sailboats, to the color
green, to pressed flowers. The air in the room

condenses in on us. I haven’t been buried
like this in years.

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Sarah Brockhaus is a Sophomore at Salisbury University. She is studying English and Secondary Education and hopes to become a high school English teacher after graduation. Outside of class she enjoys playing volleyball and drinking coffee.