How jealous you must have been
to see me in my blue shaded breeze
with the lemon scent in my mouth
and dandelions in my hair.
How painful it must have been
for you to see me laughing, living there
completely unaware
that you were sitting there
at your lonely Winter table.
You try to summon me back
with a candle and a mirror
flames dancing in the glass
of passion and longing
yet from the depths of the ocean
of your vast, hollow heart
all you could produce was an idol
who only forms a crystal
of the true God of Israel.
They say love is kind,
they say love is patient,
does not envy or boast
and shows no pride.
You are patient,
waiting for this blue wind
and this Summer day
to take me back your way
so you could pass once again
the lips you so sorely miss,
but you are not kind,
as you wait, you are a worm who wants to enter
me when fall produces fruits.
You don’t boast,
knowing what rots under what you consume
from the slober of your spit
and how easy the fantasy
of a girl who’s image you produce
only behind closed eyes can evaporate
when exposed to sunlight,
yet you envy so hard
when you see my garden blossom twice as much
without the shade of your shadow
or the coldness of your bone-like fingers.
Your pride is two-sided;
alive and dying,
true to your heart and a lie for your shell to defend itself.
In the glimmer of your eyes
you do not dishonor me,
shining me in the boldest light
of your Pagan idolatry
yet self seeking in that your false religion
is about what you can receive,
mine with a cross and outstretched arms
what you can give to what
you claim to love.
You are not angry,
only frustrated,
you keep no records of your wrongs
but have a daffodil spreadsheet of mine,
you think you know truth,
hate the evil you believe my freedom to be,
but these petals were never yours
the pollen fragrance may pass your face
but this Summer day
was not yours to stay and say
how you’d love me forever.
these dandelions were meant to pass
and these fruits were meant to fall.
What we had
has come to pass
like cheap perfume and artificial flavoring
a stray warm day in December
it will pass like the passing season,
and next Summer
my heart will beat for another.
Mia Altamuro is an eighteen year old writer from New York. She studies Journalism and Communications at Suny New Paltz. She was a semi finalist in the Blank Theatre Young Playwrights Festival, and has been published in Lupercalia and Heroica. She is @mia.isabelle_ on Instagram and @m.bella2003 on Tik Tok.