On Tuesday someone said I'd look good in a sunflower dress, and instead of responding, I thought of you twirling in your room in a blur of yellow, stepping on all the sunlight you could, and how we don't talk anymore. (Love always wakes the dragon and suddenly flames everywhere.) I don't visit home; I conflate you with too much city , sprawling urban megachurch with a Hawaiian shirt preacher strumming songs about poppy fields, the third fire of fall, ash in the bowl of tropical Skittles you set outside for ghosts, these streets we used to walk that run like fingers through your hair. I watch my roommate rip up polaroids, high school crush crushed from the space above her bed, trashed. Is this how to bury a memory? Coffee grounds as cemetery dirt.