Ruth is not her name, it's a spell
a rustling in the throat before dawn
a hush stitched in maple-blood and peach whisper
say it slow: Ru-th
it drips, saccharine
like time molassesed in a Sunday afternoon

She tells me she’s not into things
no favourite colour, no band, no dream
but she is the thing
nostalgia caught her like static on film
she watches old light like it's scripture
and I, blasphemously devout, watch her

there’s a warmness in her,  so I name it apricity
I read the word once and thought of her skin
the colour of fallen leaves that don’t rot
they just rest
her voice
if lullabies melted and reassembled as language
it bruises me sweetly like a secret I asked to be told

she says “I’m not an angel”
but that’s the trick, isn’t it
the one named Angel descended without falling

her hair weeps like willow vines
soft revolutions on her neck
her lips, pink punctuation
in my favourite sentence
azalea, cherry blossom
blush and bloom and ache

I live with her in my pupils
because the mind is too crude for safekeeping
if I stored her in thought
even shadows would steal her silhouette

are we friends, or echoes of a kiss never asked for
I write this like I’m folding my feelings
into origami cranes
hoping one will fly out of this letter
and perch on her shoulder
I’ll never tell her. Or maybe I just did
Ruth. Angel. glitch in my platonic code
you are not a memory
you are the pause in everything before it becomes one