Writing

There is a sort of gentleness; a sort of beauty in the empty bottle of wine sitting on my dresser amongst more innocent things

I'll remember the dew drops.

The ones on the grass after

a particularly humid night.

I'll remember the golden sunlight

seeping into our kitchen window

in the morning.

It would catch the side of our faces,

america is a kindergartner with her hair in pigtails. her

eyes are bright blue & curious. she wants to know the answers

to everything and she can't understand why

no one will tell her.

I am jealous of books,

the stories that have been created from beautiful minds,

but they tear me apart inside.

I'm jealous of every broken character who finds their place,

their person,

their home,

Normal days,

tragic endings,

I was playing games,

you were seeing lights,

I was listening to background noise and music,

you were hearing sirens.

Glass breaking,

life shattering,

Love is a paradoxical thing. 

I want desperately to be loved. 

I want to wake up to a "good morning, my favorite person" text. 

I want the last thing I see at night to be a little red heart emoji.