a german cigar box,
brimming with bracelets from cereal boxes,
ballerina stencils coated in spray paint,
and envelopes marked “luftpost.”
i sift through smooth, flat skipping stones to the bottom.
my fingers brush the white rose corsage
your mother never made you buy
and the daisy chain
you wove into my hair instead.
hope is a phoenix,
a burst of gold and scarlet
birthed from ashes.
i dream you meet a girl.
she has my name,
only spelled all in capital letters.
you light her silent cigarette.
