Apr 24

Remembering the Sun

He laughs like the sun. 

I don't remember meeting you
for the first time,
don't remember the way
you shook my hand
or the way you might have
smiled.
I don't remember meeting you
for the first time. 
But I know that sometime soon after,
I learned how to sing again. 

I don't remember the way
you might have shone
when I wrote my first letters again.

Scrawled onto the back
of some lost ticket stub
(for words are always
things crafted from broken shards).

Or the way you might have
gone numb at the way my broken-up words
sat so plainly on the paper,
like maybe they could save you
before you saved them.

Like maybe the poetry of childhood
was written long before someone
could comprehend
what the word
"percosious" meant.

I don't remember hearing you
laugh for the first time.

You reminded me
Apr 24

Rooftop Exploration

Apr 23

Regrets of the Runaway

I could have run away today.
I could have just done it...
could have just hopped on a bus
heading south.
South to the city.

I would have been so easy,
so easy. And I

didn't do it. 
I feel trapped again today.
I can't breathe. 
Again. 

I could have run away.
I could have run
away today, and I didn't. 

Freedom never comes for free.

Is it still running away
if I don't know
what I'm running from? 

I could have just left today. 
I didn't. 
 

Apr 16

The Way Some Live


You don't know the kind of pain 
he described that morning. 

"It's not the kind
that's easy to explain."
Not the kind of feeling, he told
you, that's easy
to wash away with a little soap.

You're not sure what to call that kind of pain.
The kind that brings 
you to the dark bathroom each night, 
sitting on the clammy tile floor.

Near the toilet.
In case you decide that maybe
it would feel better
to flush the water
down the bottom of the drain,
to watch it wash away
some feeling you didn't even
know was smeared on you. 

He says
he wonders why the crickets
keep singing
through all this horror. 
“It's because they can't see
how the stream washes away the blood." 

You tell him to hold his breath. 

Maybe it's the kind of pain, you guess,
that hides in the dry spot under the sink,

Apr 14

Like Before

It’s like they say
when the sky floats above 
gravity,
like it was purposefully put higher
than me just to intimidate 
the rest of us. 

It’s like they say 
when the ground breaks free
from its roots 
and crumbles in my shoes,
like somehow it’s supposed
to be this dirty  
when we all fall to pieces.

It’s like they say
when we laugh 
as if the sun never floated 
on the mountain top 
this morning; still 

holding hope in something 
that never loved you back.
Something that can’t pull together
as well as it used to. 
 
Apr 13

Botanical Garden

Apr 10

Welcome to the Life of the Purple Sun


It’s not like they tell you
in books:
about how the sun curls 
behind your ear, 
as if it’s just something you tuck 
in your pocket and sit on. 

No, it’s more like the ocean,
the sound of something that never 
leaves your ears. 
Water that’s ever saturating
the soles of your shoes.

It’s like breathing 
they tell you, no, 
it’s hyperventilation.
It’s like drowning. 

It’s like jumping impulsively 
into a world 
you never get to touch.

”welcome to the world of the purple sun”
He whispers.

The place where the sun fades away.
The place where we witness, everyday, 
the slipping of the sky.

And I believed it,
even if just a little. 



 
Apr 06

Departure

I'm not the kind of person anymore
who looks at the sky 
and longs to touch it. 

I'm the kind of person now
who contemplates the distance
but never does the math.

I'm the kind of person
who writes a letter 
and never sends it.

The kind of person who
breaks their own mouth 
with words 
they never got to say. 

I'm the kind of person 
who laughs with 
the sun 
in my eyes 
and chokes
on her own tears.

It's not pathetic.
It's beautiful. 

You taught me
to trace the moon.

I taught you to 
dance in the dark.

It's all the same thing;
We never stop to look. 



 
Apr 04

Courage Keepers


the losing
the ones who lie where they're supposed to
the ones who speak when spoken to 
and bite their lip in fear of tasting blood 

the ones who like the rain 
because it freezes to their skull
the ones who slip on their own tears

the ones who ceased fire years ago

the laughing 
the ones who know the sun comes up
every morning
exactly because it wants to

the ones who know that smiling is like breathing:
never ending 

the ones who learn that happiness
is born from ash 

the living 
the ones who wake every night 
and contemplate the stars
like they are nothing more
than another spark 

the ones who know how to run 
and can't breathe without a fast pulse
"you know you're having fun
when you can feel your heartbeat" 

the ones who learn when they're small 
Mar 31

Sunny Sights

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