we so rarely look up
and let the blue pour into us
and linger in the gaps between
our ribs
today i drank orange juice
out of a mug
in the kitchen at three am
waiting patiently
for the sky to turn inside out
so I could finally
remember my last name
because
I have been trying
to pour out my water logged
heart
by dumping every color I have
into a metal
sink
and then dancing
with pen ink
smudged under my eye
In a dry patch of grass
next to a parking lot
made of
peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
and light up sneakers
hoping that my too still fingers
will start moving at
unprecedented speeds
my toes have shut down
due to lack of thunder
and broken bones
and I keep losing my fingers
for some reason or another
in dreams where
the sun stays below the horizon
paper bags hold water
only slightly better than they
hold cement
and I’ve been trying to relocate
the ocean
to my doorstep
and you taught me sometimes
words mean nothing
and that all people
are liars
and that everything you say
is made of silk and feathers
and the birds in my chest keep
trying to escape
but don't know where to go
because
we so rarely look up
and let the blue pour into us
and linger in the gaps between
our ribs
and let the blue pour into us
and linger in the gaps between
our ribs
today i drank orange juice
out of a mug
in the kitchen at three am
waiting patiently
for the sky to turn inside out
so I could finally
remember my last name
because
I have been trying
to pour out my water logged
heart
by dumping every color I have
into a metal
sink
and then dancing
with pen ink
smudged under my eye
In a dry patch of grass
next to a parking lot
made of
peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
and light up sneakers
hoping that my too still fingers
will start moving at
unprecedented speeds
my toes have shut down
due to lack of thunder
and broken bones
and I keep losing my fingers
for some reason or another
in dreams where
the sun stays below the horizon
paper bags hold water
only slightly better than they
hold cement
and I’ve been trying to relocate
the ocean
to my doorstep
and you taught me sometimes
words mean nothing
and that all people
are liars
and that everything you say
is made of silk and feathers
and the birds in my chest keep
trying to escape
but don't know where to go
because
we so rarely look up
and let the blue pour into us
and linger in the gaps between
our ribs
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