The name I gave myself, years before I met you, Isla.
I dreamed I was a violet ray.
In my pocket a message lit up beneath dark glass.
I knew what you wanted.
It was Christmas, and you were thinking of a stranger.
You were violet. You arrived in my place.

I took the train to Sloane Square.
You wore a silver coat. You were waiting on the platform.
When you slid your hand up my shirt
only I knew the paradox.
Divided into you, only one of us remained.
I wasn't there with the particular:

rosé and bundled sage, bodega menthols, the blueprint café.
How long did you stay,
alone in the white room filled with oil?
How many hours did you stand in the orchard
with your father's flamethrower
before you wrote our name in fire across the grass?