An Orange Street Light

There is an orange street light by my window 

that reminds me of you. 

I can only ever see it halfway through, 

even when I stretch, even when I strain 

to catch its intricacies, its shadows— 

the stray cat that drifts past 

now and then.

I am a liar; 

I think of you when I see the sun, 

when the day slips by, 

when the city is swallowed by darkness, 

when my mother says it is useless to cry 

for something that never was.

The orange street light is a cheap imitation. 

It reminds me of you— 

of brief, saccharine pleasures 

that linger only long enough 

to turn bitter on the tongue.

I think of you, but truly I am selfish. 

I cannot even offer you my full attention. 

You would scorch my eyes 

the way the orange street light does 

when I stare too long.

I think you want to burn.

You are in pain.

Pain has a way

of dimming what once knew how to glow.

I let you burn me. 

I would burn for love. 

But this is a cheap imitation— 

an orange street light 

mistaken for a star.

I wish you knew what you wanted. 

But then, I would not want you.

I am an orange street light too.