I wrote four poems with this title.
Your body was plugged into the wall.
I heard only 80s music. I closed my eyes
and saw no stars.

You dreamed of kissing me and that same
night I dreamed of a nest of bees
exploding in my chest. My body
broke like a waterfall over your skeleton.

Flowers grew from the slats of air
on the fire escape. I splattered paint
on the wall in the shape of a tadpole
being flung onto land by a wave.

The book had too many pages.
I ripped them out and taped them
to the trees on my block. I saw your shadow
there in the roots, springing up like a mushroom.

Do you understand me? There is no making sense
of this world that lacks you. Each night I put
a mirror by my window, so that if you come visit me,
you will see only yourself.

Grace Novarr is a rising junior at Barnard, studying English and other things. She is from New York City.