Writing

Composed on a run

With autopilot turned on

And an old love song
 

Quick little poems

With no start, nor a clear end

Grown just in my head
 

In a cozy nook

Not unwritten, but unsaid

Hey, Mr. P,

I saw a paper airplane 
and remembered you.
It's been too long — 
my paper world rips;
these hands are painted with cuts.

Every Halloween, one house on your street stays dark; no lights, no candy, no decorations. The neighborhood kids whisper about it, daring each other to knock, but no one ever does.

With her cheek pressed against the window of the car, hurtling down a freeway to god knew where, she watched with tired eyes and a heavy soul as the scenery flew by.

When I hear the words cross-country

I hear tired laughter

The kind when you know you didn’t get enough sleep.

Bus rides early in the morning, sliding under the seats,

I call her my best friend, but she's closer to a sister to me.

Her smile reminds me of warm, rainy days and lightning,

Lighting up the sky for a second, followed by the laughter of the clouds.