By Rachel Cruea
I will not leave your bed
until honey sings and the sun rusts.
I rip the second hand off the clock;
we won’t reach our second summer.
Until honey sings and the sun rusts,
I’ll count the seams stitched between us.
We won’t reach our second summer—
I mend your hems, pick glass off your jacket.
I lose count of the seams stitched between us;
lie awake to the sound of sharp ticking.
I mend your hems, pick glass off your jacket
and let you undress me quietly.
I lie awake to the sound of sharp ticking,
search for needles in a basket of thread.
Please undress me quietly
or the sun will forget to rise.
I’m still searching in a basket of thread,
I ask you to tell me the time but
you reply the sun will not rise today;
I cannot leave your bed.
Rachel Cruea is a student at Ohio Northern University studying Creative Writing & Literature. She is the Editor-in-Chief for Polaris Literary Magazine, and her work has been published in editions of Prairie Margins, Sun & Sandstone, The Vehicle, and Collision, among a few others. She is originally from Findlay, Ohio.