swimspotter

I knew it was bad
when you didn’t even have to say it,
when I saw it in your eyes,
when I knew it in the way you folded your arms
and turned away when I spoke.

Democracy isn’t a mother 
who shields you from the storm;  
it’s the ghost of a father 
who leaves when the lights flicker,  
and promises turn to dust 
in his palms. 

Two doors, both locked, neither mine.
Two names, one I gave up.
Two voices, both demanding I choose.
A home is a shelter. A home is a question.

I wake up in a world that’s always moving, 

a second away from breaking. 
I scroll through the noise, 

and I wonder what happens when the screen goes dark. 

You say you want to see fall from my perspective, 
and I laugh, thinking of every maple tree 
I’ve leaned against, 
hands stained by apples split open, 
the cider I’ve spilled on my sleeves. 

You stumbled into my life like fall,
the way the air sharpens,
the first breath caught in my lungs,
catching me off guard,
an ache I didn’t know I missed.