by K.S. Baron

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& together we grow the sun in our garden,
a light tended on vines that wrap
from my arms to yours because without you
i am only me—only half of the we that i love‏

& together we cook food from the peppers
we’ve plucked in baskets, washed, held, rinsed
under our third kitchen sink, a third home
you and i built when the last was too much‏‏‎ ‎

& together we open the moon and the stars,
breathe into them what they’ve given to us
for eight years, eight years of you tapping your leg
against the coffee table, couch, computer desk‏‏‎ ‎

& i wouldn’t trade them for all the keyboards
you keep stashed in our closet or all the shells
stuffed in tupperware that i swear one day
i’ll find something for us to do with.‏‏‎ ‎

© K.S. Baron

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K.S. Baron (she/her) is a poetry editor at Last Leaves Magazine and a budding digital artist. Her work has previously appeared in Capsule Stories, Havik Poetry, Burnt Pine Magazine, and others. She has a soft spot for sharp things (like cats and cacti) and finds herself drawn to the moon.

You can find her on Instagram at @k.s.baroness.

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