Her eyes
are the colour of coming home.
Earth and summer nights and the sound of bells.
Somehow, my own flat grey
look rich
in their reflection.
Men have killed for such beauty and yet.
And yet.
She makes me wish I could be more gentle,
because something as delicate
as the way her eyes light up
when she laughs
deserves the utmost care.

There sits a white rose,
pressed and dried.
A memory of a wedding
with bright smiles,
a row of bone as white
as a rose.
A relic,
or a talisman,
or maybe just a moment.

A geode cracked by summer,
the colour of June rain,
encapsulating fairy tales
and young spirits.
The steady beat of a drum.

A ring, iridescent,
Etched with dragons
That serve as a reminder.
A sky-blue child
With stone-grey eyes,
Yearning for greatness,
There are scratches
Where it has been bitten
By gravel
And youth.

A leaf,
Small and crisp,
Barely bigger
Than a finger nail.
It is the colour
Of coming home,
Of winter-bright mornings,
Of laughter in a pumpkin patch.

A touchstone,
presenting an image of the sun.
Purple and yellow
at ease alongside each other.
A nickname, Sunshine,
and my mother’s voice.

A deck of tarot cards,
worn at the edges
but still bright.
Cold blue nights
under blankets
and reading by flashlight.
A deck of cards that call out
“See me, see me!”

lemon, a touch too artificial
sugar, a touch too sweet
in an owl painted mug, a touch too hot

that first sip hits like a memory
it drags with it the smell of coffee
       black, no room
and the taste of your name
the sound of a coffee shop
       of a donut shop
blood orange slices and citrus frosting and paper straws
       soaked
              soaking
                     disintegrating

the memory dissolves alongside the straw
and the back of my throat burns
at a touch too much
it rings in my ears, trailing behind Freddie Mercury
crooning about how he doesn’t want to die
       i told you i didn’t want to die anymore that first night
and i pretend i don’t hear you singing along
i pretend you didn’t see me cry on the side of the road
       for two hours
i pretend i don’t miss the way you held my hand
i pretend
       i don’t
              miss
                     you

lemon, a touch too artificial
sugar, a touch too sweet
in an owl painted mug, a touch too hot

that first sip hits like a memory
it drags with it the smell of coffee
black, no room
and the taste of your name
the sound of a coffee shop
of a donut shop
blood orange slices and citrus frosting and paper straws
soaked
soaking
disintegrating

the memory dissolves alongside the straw
and the back of my throat burns
at a touch too much

This is my home.
This empty space nothingness
I filled with anything I could find.
These empty blank streets
I pounded until my feet
Knew them better than I did.
Those empty cold nights
I wandered through
Until I found something beautiful.
Until I found you.

Animal and wet earth cling to you,
wrapped over your shoulders
like that blanket your mother loves.
It makes the hot sugar and grill smoke floating in the sun
all the more inviting.

The chicken barn behind you releases a cacophony
of shuddering wings
and braying clucks.
Your friend’s Rhodes and Cochins ring in your mind
with the warmth of summertime laughter.
You can hear the performers
preparing for the after dark show,
an act of fire and acrobatics that will echo across the fairgrounds.

The woman in front of you hands you a stick
dripping with hot oil and summer freedom.
Freshly fried, it looks exactly like the corn dogs
in your father’s hand
but you know better.
You take a bite too quickly,
you know it’s still too hot to eat,
but the familiar burst of cheddar-mozzarella
soothes the burn.
It’s as gooey as the late evening sun,
thick and viscous,
and you’re glad the booth was moved back from the main throughway.
less foot traffic means maybe you can get another one
Before the sun sets.

I’m learning how to be a person again.
Four days ago I nearly jumped in front of a car.
This is the fifth time in three weeks that’s happened.
Once I held myself back from jumping in front of a train.
I would hate to be a hassle.
I’ve only been eating toast and shredded wheat cereal.
Two days ago I ate my cereal and then puked it up
twenty minutes later
                                      to feel
                                                  control.
I bruised my ribs the same way I always do,
Wrenched out my shoulder the same way I always do,
Lost my hands to stiff pain the same way I always do.
I keep poking at wounds
Because the pain
Is how I know I’m alive.
I’m still deciding if that’s good or bad.