Lily Ladewig

Your Hands Were Architects

On cold mornings
my mind goes white

no amount of tucking in sheets
or repeating your name like ropes of licorice
can turn me pink.

I close my eyes—
recalling satin slippers

the color blue and the backseat of taxicabs.
I felt I was being pulled away

the torn-apart half-moons
of an orange, translucent and scandalous

wrapped in thin skin, white chalkiness
rubbed off on fingertips.

These days nothing is as beautiful as you,
stretching yourself into a bat, leaning
over balconies.