Adieu to City Lights
by Avery Dietz
Do you remember that summer night?
You found me, a flower—wilted
amidst a ripened patch. You picked my roots
and placed in snug ceramic on front seats
of polyester. 71 is swaddled
in streetlights, passing like stars
from different lifetimes. The cursive
of neon bars, a reddened diamond
horseshoe, the overhead shine of a tower too big
for an insurance company, all soak me
in iridescent rays, but this is a different kind
of photosynthesis. For a moment,
I have forgotten you, the blue hue
of your iris, as it swallows the light
to expel it more beautifully. Tomorrow
you fly for a place unknown,
unfastened from the world
as it fixates its spotlight for you. Tomorrow
I want you to search for that same light, allow your gaze
to cast no shadow, even as your eyes collide with fireworks
and illuminate azure across the night sky. But for now,
you take the 471, the long way home
from this city of lights. Tomorrow
my petals may fall, my stem light
an empty spine with no head, but for now,
I feel less withered, chloroplasts full
of sapphire tinted sunlight. If my leaves
could form lips to speak, they may mutter
a thank you, or confess my love
for lightwaves bathed in shades of blue, but for now,
I'm just content with being the flower
you chose amidst a ripened patch.