I never claimed to be a beautiful soul.
I never asserted that I love everyone.
I am not the idea you invented in your mind,
a projection of an ideal.
I am merely a puzzle of flaws and synchronized sins.
Missing a few pieces and searching under couches for myself.
I try to write the most beautiful of things in hopes that I will find myself in them one of these days.

Last night I dreamt of you,
you tied strings to the corners of my mouth and
showed me that love isn't always synonymous with loss.
Your soul danced the way we did when we were kids playing in the backyard,
decorated with iridescent imagination.
You always had a knack for delaying the sunset and coloring the rain.

Did you feel that,
the earth quaking to its knees?
You had this way of dropping your atomic eyes to convince me we were unstoppable and we are all that I would ever need.

I will always be that old weathervane left in the backyard.
Oh how I wish you were here so I could dissect your winds and
wait for you to blow back my way.

I taste words on everything.
Read stories in every silence
and make art
out of every glance.

The broken will always feel the drift of art more.
Because once you've been numb to unreal pain,
you learn to appreciate anything that nudges you to breathe again.