-
and yet, every year, I still watch the birds fly
-
using writing as a distraction
from writing (odd as it seems)
-
is there something about sun patterns
-
every time I lean forward to type
-
words that never existed before I dreamed them
-
I've wasted so much time
trying to illustrate my patchwork heart,
-
-
sunny days could never compare
to the tartness of your lips
-
I felt a little warped
standing under an autumn tree
-
I took away the moon for just one night
in the hopes my dreams would follow it
-
testament to the season:
rich golds and umbers overshadowed by
-
youth in the blush of rouge,
a flower to match the beauties she holds
-
-
she once made ripples in the cosmos
-
-
-
having never seen myself as a god
I wouldn't have the right
-
I let bees creep across my tongue
in the hopes of tasting honey,
-
I took what I could,
finding nothing in the beauty
-
White hands with fingertips of morning sky
-
you box me in:
sharp words smooth out into a tidy room,
-
-
She felt she was stuck forever in improper grammar
-
-
I'm unable to slip away into dreaming
-
it's every parent's fear
to outlive their child
-
listening for the first crack of fall
through the midnight open window
-
I've locked my heart into partitions
and, for my own good,
-
praying with my life,
though I tend not to kneel
-
pale white
legs like spiders
-
-
near perfect weather
involves a bit of dreaming
-
coral fingers find room to grow across my spine
-
zebra soul gives me light and dark
in semi-regular patterns,
-
she nested with the wind
in the hopes of blowing away
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