Impressions.

Coffee rings on counter tops cover paints stains sliding toward hardwood floors and sharpied
sneakers smudged by scuffs of dirt the color of eyes half lidded in the dark that photos tens years
past can’t capture. Wax pool candles flicker on flower printed walls while open windows let
florescent lights bleed golden into the inky night washing our young skin bright while tangled
limbs cradle our dark between us growing like sentries from the porch. Arms curved round my
shaking back, breast carving her shape against my chest which those that follow can never fully
fill. Calloused feet balance on steps worn smooth from years dancing in the dark to stave off
farewells, but every dance has its end.

And when our feet no longer tread these familiar steps, the wood remembers.

***

Britt Burton is a writer from Michigan currently hiding in the Colorado rockies while spending too much time reading, creating art, and streaming. She is fascinated by the way poetry can transform language and seeks new ways for poetry to express the nostalgic and tragic.