We sit on the tablecloth,
junebug green with splotches of white
daisies or wildflowers or tulips, indistinguishable
in the dark of the icebox night, the sky
injected with dim clouds in the spaces
where stars should be. There are no more
seats at the picnic tables that speck

the side yard of the coffee shop. A girl
reads, framed by Christmas lights
that are two months too late, but pretty
anyway. She stitches together words that fit
the Valentine’s Day theme: that first date,
his lips hesitant against her cheek,
so light she wonders if she willed it
into existence, so quick she wonders
if they were ever there at all. Your arms

are behind you resting against the draped ground,
propping you up. I sit the same way. Lately,
we’ve realized that similarities
should be expected between us. You say
you’re not surprised, as though you’ve known
this would happen, since last December
when I poured fake snow into your hand
and we watched the flakes
expand under the trickle of water
from my bottle. I ran
my finger through the chilled
dusting, tracing the lines on your palm
that I couldn’t see. Our hands

are so close on the tablecloth now. I could speak
one syllable and the force would be enough
to propel our pinkies into one another.
The Spanish moss slinks from the tree
branches above us, like Dali’s clocks,
the minutes unthawing on their faces.

Rochelle Germond is currently pursuing her MFA in Poetry at North Carolina State University in Raleigh. Her work has appeared in The Battered Suitcase, Third Wednesday, Emerge, and Torrid. Originally from Florida, she most misses palm trees and lizards, though she is enjoying the fireflies and seasons of her new home.