I closed the curtains:

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