Writing

not a cola or a root beer;

something in between

like a tortured machine—

it will power down soon.

that tang on your tongue

is from my chewed up wires,

lightning should show through smoke

One day, a young girl walked into a seaside meadow.

The sky was clear and could be compared to a robin's egg,

It was her favorite color,

Her mother said it matched her eyes.

Poems are birds in the kingdoms of languages

Always flying towards each other and paradise

***

Together, perhaps

We hear the sound of the universe

***

The sunlight comes in

i had a dream
last night that
we were

running 

the alarm had rung, the
sky had darkened (or maybe it was still pale blue),
and people were 

yelling

I yelled at my father.

I remember the sun perched at the very top of the tree—too still, too watchful—like it had been waiting for me long before I ever looked up. Its light wasn’t warm the way it should’ve been; it felt focused, intentional… like a gaze.