Nic Sebastian

Reasons


Your eyes feel furrowed and green-brown
like farmland in spring; your voice trails
the scent of cedar trees in June.
Your fingers whispering on my skin
taste like mulled wine before Christmas
and my tongue, feathering yours,
hears an Easter oboe. You smell of old gold
and orange, of Friday afternoon. I listen
for the red fragrance of palm blood and weep
of its warm splash.