Acer Sacharrum

You wake up in a white room. Not really a room, exactly, but it is a space. You think. You are there, so it must be, right? In front of you is a couch with a person on it.

I write this now, in loving memory of a man who has not yet left us.

lately i miss owls

the mountains grumble and grow, pushing up around pumpkin shards and lost dreams

who i want to be

who i’m becoming

i feel like a dusty yellow pear

it won't be flashy, showy, or

even remotely special to the untrained eye

but those who've suffered the burden of 

knowing me will understand why

my next trick is magical.

from the seventh grader who

I am a dying star
Don’t mourn me, I am quite far.

for one more time 
i will sit in the same place 
as I have for so long 

for one more time
i will be the people 
i've grown to know 
love and hate