The pulp sticky on your fingers

 

The pulp sticky on your fingers

Sometimes your hope 

Is a yellow blanket

Flung haphazard on the couch

Sometimes it is 

The child tripping on the 

Way up the steps

Splitting his lip on the ledge

And looking back with a 

Shaky smile and teary eyes

Other times your hope

Is a room full of 

Voices talking over each other,

In the familiar way

That only breeds affection

It is the breaking 

Of the yolk running down

Over the sides

It is the beetle burning

In the flame on the log

Just trying to return home

It is the split orange

Perfectly portioned for me and you,

A feast prepared in anticipation,

The pulp sticky on your fingers

– olivia gwyn

things I've learned since you

 

Things I've learned since you

How to watch an anime all the way through

How to walk away

How to propagate a philodendron

How to sear a steak

How to relish in the making of something 

Where to thrift (everywhere, with abandon)

Where to launch the boat

Where to change your own oil

Where to get our nails done

Where to cry, on the couch, with your hand resting on the side of my face

When to pick up snacks from the gas station

When to have people over without folding the laundry

When to stay up watching TikToks (I never knew how to do this before)

When to stop guilt tripping myself

When to eat rice after leaving it out all night

When / Where / How to spend the rest of my life loving you

– olivia gwyn                     

Everything is butter yellow

 

Everything is butter yellow 

Everything is butter yellow 

In the evening light 

On the cusp of fall

Summer still writing love notes 

Across the earth 

In its best handwriting

The darkness taking the landscape,
Changing it with 
Each large, easy stride

I try to follow as fast as I can 
To take it all in, but it doesn't 
Wait for me

It never does
I am trying to learn
To walk slowly anyway

— olivia gwyn