• Seneca Basoalto

Honey Cornbread

Who waits longer for their lover to show — the living or the dead?

The static of a dream, our song on repeat / my pulse alone could carry

the both of us. It's untrue to say I live without you, I never have / the spirit in you

dawdles without exposing its spoiling, and spreads your warm hand to mine

like pulling the power of touch from a memory. I feel it even after I wake — sweaty palms

and the bulge of pancakes in your underbelly. Now that you are dead, I think you know

where the best memories can be found / on a rural country road in upstate,

inside a farmhouse — filtered sunlight before honey cornbread and the smell of rain

against blackberries, more than a minute and a mile away from the metro pique

near our diner of choice on 6th Ave., where I can never go back to,

not without you. But I still live for you, so I can dream for you, and wait

for you to kiss me while the wooden floors creek.

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