Green Light

I smell like burnt photographs, like
that time we baked a vanilla cake and it fell apart because we frosted it too soon
Like toothpaste and cologne and fabric softener, a combination that let me know you weren’t trying too hard
Like that perfume that gave me a headache but I wore because you liked it
Like week old ashes from which you tried to rekindle a flame in the woodstove when we were out of oil
Like the gummy bears I got a whiff of when I worked at that ice cream place, the same ones we’d drive to the 24-hour gas station to buy and I’d scarf down before you had a chance to ask for some
Like pine needles and cinnamon, which made me feel more comfortable in your home than I did in my own

Your voicemails sound like you miss me, like
the old people who asked if we were newlyweds when we argued about which movie to get from the RedBox in front of the dollar store
Like our impersonations of your oblivious and confused stepfather
Like the little grunting sounds I made to let you know that I was too tired to move, the ones that told you if I didn’t to back to sleep I’d be grumpy
Like your mom vacuuming, like clockwork, every Sunday morning around eight o’clock

I feel like Jay Gatsby--
Or rather, I’m Daisy and you’re Gatsby
And you know damn well I hate Daisy Buchanan with every fiber of my being,
But I wouldn’t call Gatsby a hero, either.