by Kaylyssa Hughes
You are inside the taqueria, flipping through the paper as you wait for your take-out. I watch you from the car. The windows of the taqueria are blue, actresses are yelling wordlessly in your hair. I watch your fingers turn the pages of the paper. I am on those fingers. Like a mother wraps her scarf around your neck and nudges you out the door, I encircled your fingers with my scent: remember me by this, and be warm.
Kaylyssa Hughes has a blog and has published two booklets.