A daydreamer who fills in details
and lets bad plots unravel
free,
I’ve found importance in
replaying memories
to keep them
true.
The way the marmalade streetlight
glow and oak tree shadows
competed for purchase on her cheek
my hand on her cheek
and hip
first kiss outside my car
outside her apartment.
The citrus smell left behind on the tank top
she borrowed to sleep in
another night.
I compelled myself to wash it days later
before it shifted from sweet memory
to something unhealthy to hold onto.
The tire tread wearing thin,
the car sliding,
instead of following the black curve of road.
The clash of bumper against concrete median,
headlight fractured
but quiet then. Alone on the entrance ramp,
I decided I could only linger so long
and drove home.
Marmalade by Michael Chin | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser
Michael Chin was born and raised in Utica, New York and currently lives in Las Vegas with his wife and son. He’s the author of seven full-length books, including his latest short story collection This Year’s Ghost (JackLeg Press, 2025). Find him online at miketchin.com
