Writing

it had seemed almost magical that evening.

twinkle lights strung up around, 

affixed to the wooden fences surrounding, 

holding us in.

Verse 1
I counted constellations on my ceiling
Tried to make your name out of the light
They say everything is always changing
But I stayed the same every night

Red

White

And Blue

The colors of America

We parade down the streets

Covered in these colors

I wonder what our parade will look like

This year

Will we parade with joy

Celebrate tragedies

I need pretty things; 

I need the Lumineers singing 

about flowers on vinyl, and 

I need stained glass bubbles twinkling 

in the window, and 

to see my poetry scrawled in 

My dad was a super hero. One weekend out of every month. 

The best kind of pain. Pain for what we once loved and now lost. The ability to know what it was once like is a privilege. It’s hard to quantify the feeling; the simple 1–10 chart is unreliable in this circumstance.