Writing

It begins —

This thing call Spring —

With sunshine and birdsong

Slowly infused into everything.

It begins with

Deep brown rivers gauged in viscous dirt roads,

As the frozen ground thaws and overflows.

I painted my nails blue

because I couldn’t think what else to do 

to stop myself from thinking of you.

I didn’t realize until they dried,

it was the very color of your eyes:

to live is to see the sorrows of others

to long for the song of your mom

to stroke the head of your black dog

to live is to see the sorrows of others 

to greet at the sound of your father’s feet

“Harris is a communist,” My grandfather protests. 

“Better a communist than a felon,” My father shoots back. 

There is a swirl of color that accompanies all things. 

Every twist and turn, every fall and failure. All words spoken and sung, every smile or laugh. 

I envy those who’ve never known Loneliness.
She is not just empty space—she’s a presence,
cold fingers brushing the back of your neck
when no one’s watching.