They tell me you've gone to Florida
where it's always citrus-scented,
sleek at night
but in the morning
sunburned like your freckled face.

I know you won't stay there
where your mother will sell
dream-catchers for drugs,
skip her alcoholics anonymous meetings
for drinks at the bar on the nearest corner.
I know you've slipped away
to a realm apart
kept carefully hidden from ours.
When my blood runs warmer,
when I can detach myself from this
stretch of sky and these
outstretched arms that never meant
to hold me
I'll find you there -
Crafting shields with compressed roses
that match the wreath that rests
on your sun-streaked hair.