soppy, sloppy, sincere sestina

By Bailey Andrea Tolentino

Your exhale escapes into the icy air, and you follow it with, ‘I’m so happy it’s winter.’

The smell outside is like home, we agree, like a New England November.

Words like these are ones I have never heard from you.

The calm in your voice has been missing for far too long.

Whenever you go to Italy, I have a new song written by the time you’re back.

This time, it’ll be this soppy, sloppy, sincere sestina. It’s kinda long, but I hope you’ll accept.

You are not the kid you were when we met, which you have chosen to accept.

But there was something left of him in the first snowfall, this winter.

I suppose it’s still autumn, but nonetheless, you complain that this Godforsaken weather is back.

I’ve always said my favourite month is November,

though the sun does not stay up all that long.

Whenever it rises, I pet your face, I think it does so for you.

And no matter how much everyone tells me to, I don’t want to ever give up on you.

I watched It’s a Wonderful Life last night and realised you’re a lot like George Bailey, except

finding me at 320 Sycamore would never take you that long.

It’s too bad you’re always frozen in your mental midwinter,

for I look into your eyes and I’m eating apple pie on the last Thursday of November.

I’m eight years old and I’m back home. I wish I could also keep your innocence intact.

Sometimes you say things that take me aback,

but I don’t believe that is really you.

I dream of figuring it all out by December.

I ignore everyone, other than the girl in your eyes. Only she gives me accept-

able answers. The ones I need to get through this winter.

Everyone else is wrong. They don’t understand that forever lasts this long.

‘Could you do this for the rest of your life?’ I assure everyone I’m fine; that’s only so long.

I trace all the possibilities of us along the curve of your back.

Of keeping you warm through every dreaded winter.

Of no longer being this foolish, starstruck ingénue.

For now, I’m not entirely sure what to do, except

smoke it away and let it linger. The bed is to us what the ashtray is to cigarette embers.

You are the saddest I’ve ever seen every time you remember.

And maybe you’ve felt that way all along.

Your reality is one we both refuse to accept.

I don’t know what I mean when I say I want to go back.

I just know it’s something to do with you.

It seems you might still be somewhere near, even though you don’t like winter.

I hope one day you’ll fully accept how I feel about November.

If I ate some winter salad, would your mother and I get along?

I know there’s no quick fix, let me take that back. I just wish I could’ve stayed there with you.