...but the growing hurts.

skidmarks
                                   and tar
         cold bits            of residue

                                               Empty.

                       clutched
                            dropped
                  in a glass puddle-

                       I had a dream.
                       but there are still        pieces
                       I can’t fill.

dreams are like memories through fogged glasses and melted wax and questions.
Old albums.
    Blurred.
         
          I need to wonder,
          on that day,
          was there a song in your head?
          - humming lips, not Credits, something more 
          mid-second-act- 

or did it end in silence?
          an intake
          a release

the sky is grey today.
I think it forgot to put on its colors,
but I hope it squeezed them out and gave those colors        to you.

          or maybe it dressed to cry.

          You left a hole that can’t be filled with
              spackling
          or daisies
or answers, because not even grown-ups have the answers when we want them to
and hearts this young aren’t supposed to understand

                                                   but we know she will.

  The clock stopped somewhere between October and June,
          with a dozen messages in the inbox
          and an unfulfilled grocery list.

The daisies are trying to grow in that glass puddle.
The daisies feel like tearing. And you want to run 
your hand through her hair one more time,
                    ask her if she’s cold one more time,
          tell her she’s too young for swearing,
too strong to be called anything but star-spun galaxy,
          fiery sun
want one last moment in orbit.

          There’s questions you never got to answer,
          moments you’ll never get to see.
                    The late night phone calls from San Francisco,
                    or Upstate New York,
          or maybe just the other side of town,
          and you're supposed to fix things.

          And when she has her first job,
          biggest rejection,
          when she falls 
                                        in love with someone
          or maybe with herself,
          turns thirteen,        eighteen,            fifty,

                    tries to be an adult-
                    What now?

The daisies can still grow.

And now you’re the one who needs the needle and thread. But you weren’t supposed to break her heart.

                                                           Or maybe none of this.                                                            Maybe these flashes were true somewhere else,
                                                           or nowhere.
                                                           Maybe they’re just part of the dream.
How do I let go?
You aren’t sure.

                                        How do I-
                              Breathe. 
                    It is out of your hands now
          and shit, I wish it wasn’t,
but I promise you, the hands she’s in are so beautiful.

They will carry.
              They will wipe her tears
     and hold her hand 
                    and be proud 
          and sad 
             and forgiving.

They will pick up the late night phone calls,
   and buy the chocolate,
and teach her everything you wanted to say.

And they will love her.
And they will love her.
And they will love her.
And they will love her.