By Ellie McFarland

I see you orange,
like the volcano you must
be made of.  

The lava that pours from your veins.
You are made of cursive smoke
swirlings and silence.

You and I burn out
all at once, like two
matches lit at the same time.

And you are as warm as the flame
was, tell me it’s alright if
I’m not. You say it’s okay to be cold.

But you
still say I’m the warmest one,
that you’re the snowman and I’m the scarf around its neck.

I think that we’re the
most poetic thing. Like sitting
on your bed in card game laughter and

relating in ways
neither of us thought we might
ever feel.  

Tied together by
the same diagnosis, same
ticks and coping tricks.

If the light gets too
bright I start pulling out my
hair. But you’re solar

irradiance lit
in rays of
pure understanding.

Because if Ra was
real, he would be you,
and your celestial warmth.

And you melt all the
ice from my body even
when it’s still snowing.

You say that black soaks
up the most sunlight, and you
are all the sunlight.

You’re manic disassociation
and Van Gogh
inspiration in

yellow acrylic.
And even so, I should say “I love you”
a bit more often.