Do you remember the lamplight
—out of everything, I know— but 
the lamplight, the lamplight
tracing your face with my eyes, 
hands wooden at my sides, holding 

the moment a beat too long, 
anticipation unspooling, quivering
until it snaps. 

From friends to ambiguity—
did you know I’m already
so in love, missing 
her consistently, persistently
because in this moment, and the 
previous, and the next, no one, 
not you, not anyone, 
even comes close. 

Let’s leave it at that:
one night, this circle of lamplight, 
blotting out the stars,
two steps away from life. 

Let’s cherish the simplicity; 
the lines are rarely this neat.

ROBIN SEILER-GARMAN currently lives in Washington, DC where she fights for reproductive rights and writes on public transit. Originally from California, she was an editor for Camas at Linfield College in Oregon. You can find her tweeting about poetry, politics, and queerness at @rsgwriting.