and may the fairies bless you with blueberry stars,
a bruised hue of battered pride and midnight.
Lined with lace, the conjurings of our tastebuds
and cool sink water on fingertips as I write.
I've never been good at stitching, but I take the tiny
hotel kits and sew red buttons onto my desk
the two extras that came with the new coat Grandma
bought me last Chinese New Years.
My hair is tangled into forget me knots
Was I supposed to remember, or were they?
The flowers are just pretty now, if we both forgot anyway.
Ergo, we fancy ourselves philosophers as the bathtub drains
and consider how we know we're sentient, if knowing is enough.
I can feel the tears on my cheeks, see God
pinching a pipette to drop it hastily on my cheek
while my eyelashes flicked closed for a century, a second.