Timothy Geiger
Featured Image: untitled © Harindher Sridhar 2018

Here are less than two hundred words I meant to say
before you went
like the twenty-dollar bill found on the sidewalk,
then spent
in the store where all the salesgirls
wore black
and their fingers were spiders on the glass showcase
holding nothing
because the store was closing for good the next day.
If I could
I’d go back to the starlit night we first met
and ask
if you would try to imagine where we’d be
in ten years,
fifteen years—is it twenty-five years already?
But the store
is closing, and I haven’t figured out what I need.
I should have
this and I should have that, but I’d forgotten how hard
it is not being poor.
I’m asking now that you’re a thousand miles away,
What do you want,
and why are you calling after all this time in my dreams?

That night
the stars were one-sided conversations, so many sparks
going to ash.