street lamp

that night i planted my peach pits
in the parking lot outside your house.
the moon was over-baked
& i wore gloves i'd cut the fingers off of.
only two weeks left until winter break
i was spending my time loving you
& lighting matches just to watch
something consumed by fire. 
in your bed we'd watched 
bird cage, the robin williams movie. 
i'd never seen it & i found myself craving
a life above a neon dream. mostly,
i lived out of my car but you didn't know that.
instead, i was just another trans boy
with a soft voice & ill-fitting men's jeans. 
we ate caramel corn. you rested your head
on my shoulder. there is a kind of intimacy 
specific for trans people who have
only recently gotten to share
who they are. us, like two birds
whispering to one another 
about what migration is & the purposes
of a feather. re-learning how to breathe.
your deadname was still scratched 
on the drawer of your dresser
& i pretended not to see it. mine was
on all my credit cards & ids. 
it felt like living a beautiful secret life 
to be real in holy lamp light.
i always liked to stay in your parking lot
a few minutes after we said goodbye.
i think it was a desire for the night
to not carry me back alone again.
or else maybe i was bathing
in your neighborhood's glow.
tell me, friend, is there a peach tree
there now? i know it was winter
when i planted the pits. i know
the night was cold but i want to believe
something took root. if not,
then lie to me. tell me it fruits strangely 
in the first weeks of december
& that it tastes like caramel popcorn.