Self-Portrait with Nissan and Failed Romance

by Connor Watkins-Xu

I’m fingertips interlocked on the console
like an oyster. What is our pearl?

I’m an embrace that halts your heart and
I hope to be the vessels of wine-aged love.

I’m long stares and stolen glances, the shine off
your wood-grain glasses. You’re tortoiseshell and

I’m black lacquer, wood burn, smoke signal.
I’m broken speedometer and bent signs.

I’m an ozone burned meteor and you’re my phoenix
in the right seat. I’m tires blowing out, a black halo ripped.

I’m a get-out-of-relationship free card. Can you color
a fading man? I’m blue confidence, naked secret, violent silence.

I’m the kiss you’ve never felt, the felt tip marker you write
wrongs with. Never use red, it’s too harsh. I’m lipstick, ink pen.

I’m the words I wish were in your throat, the handwritten ones
I fashion when you fold into an unread text. I’m the space below

the E-line. I’m lightning flash and Texas rain, but I wanna be
your Windy City. I’m our rotini twisted. Take and eat

unless I’m rancid and expired. I’m milk past its ninth day,
I’m on my ninth life. I’m a stray and I’m hands to my own clay.

I’m the flower that will last too long, the Valentine’s day poem,
your unexpected Yes. You’ve given me your hand and I’m imagining

how that pearl will shine when I park this car. I’m letting go.
You’re wildfire and dry air. Trust will come when I’m no longer smoke.