You don’t look like the moon,
even when you said
she is your favorite mirror.

You said I reminded you of the sun
in clementine and amber before
the rushing black.

But I think we are a map
of stars. Organized above the sky,
a pattern meant to meld together
instead of existing apart.

-Lynsie Sitler
Bad Times Poetry



I’ve always loved
the way smoke curls in long warm tendrils
into the velvet black.

My mouth to yours.

I wonder if it hurts you
the way it hurts me?


I want the sky

At night

Twinkling pinholes in velvet

To something bright behind

I want to see

Above the curtain.


I want the sea

At night

To wrap myself in icy velvet

And find out what’s below.