Diorama Quatrains

I spelled out your name
with scissors and cotton,
placed the letters neatly
in diorama fashion, thinking
in ghost quatrains that lulled
me to sleep unconsciously.
I made a tree out of green
crayons and brown crayons,
some of which I had to steal
from the sharpened shavings
settled at the bottom of the box.
Your name started to smell like honey,
the first catastrophic melt of the summer.
It’s for you, this name made
of abandoned skin and fever dreams.
If you take it in your hands
I will never see it again, at least
not with my own eyes, which
I still prefer to the alternative
which is never seeing you again.