AIMEE TACON

“a riddle,” she whispers, and hands it to you
pressed into the hollow of your palm
a folded-up sunset

you hear it before you see it, and even then – you’re not sure you do
the light press of a kiss behind your ear

close your eyes to see clearly
words cut stark against the glare:

but it leaves the way it came, snatched and creased and whisked away
the absence pierces hot, stings sharp beyond reckoning, but
you suppose it belonged to her anyway

when is a dream no longer a dream?

when it wears your face

when it follows me after I wake
a half-formed thought

a memory

the most familiar stranger

I knew you second – I remembered you first

I called you Nostalgia

I took your face in my hands
only to find them wrapped around my own neck –

because through it all, you were me, fully

you are,
fully
me