To You, In All Your Brilliance:

I hope you are living your two-bedroom-two-bath-condo life in full italics,

your extra-bronzer-on-the-powderpuff dreams.

I hope when people drag themselves from bed to queue up to see Venus in her armless glory,

they think of the soft crook of your armpit or being haphazardly crushed against the paisley

of your sports bra in the early morning. I think you should know you give—gave—the best hugs,

bursting with the scent of patchouli chocolate. (Or was it vetiver and lilies? I can’t remember

now. I suppose it doesn’t matter. Summer never lasts as long as we intend.)

I hope that you kept your hair rose gold until your roots grew out

or at least until the landlord took back the extra key. I left it in the bottom drawer of your dresser.

I hope you kept up tarot, that you saved the fortune cookie crumbs, the plastic takeout containers,

the blurry post-interview selfies taken for good luck from cramped museum bathrooms.

I hope that each time somebody mentions Adonis in passing, you look up with your lopsided grin

at an audience comprised of people who remind you of me, but only slightly.

I hope your winged liner and your silk cardigans still inspire awe.

I hope someone offers to buy you a drink for old time’s sake:

a mimosa nestled firmly in the two o’ clock lunch hour.

I hope someone walks you to work, home, and back again.

I hope it’s the same kind of boring someone every time—

someone who doesn’t threaten to dim your light.

I hope you make breakfast for each other. Or at least poor attempts at brunch.

I hope you know by now that mimosas are brunch drinks.

And I can’t bring myself to order them because I’ll impose all my hopes on you.

Like the hope that you miss me just as much or that you kept the key

and hid it in your bra next to your heart.

I hope for angel numbers, though I deleted yours.

I hope for a lot of signs, actually—jealously—

waiting for me at the bottom of every glass.