who comes
home every
day, dives
straight into
a tall amber
bottle, falls
into a stonewalled
well of silence,
a place where he can tread
the suffocating loneliness.
on the surface, he’s a proud
man. but just beneath his not-
so- thick skin, is a broken soul.
in his courtroom, he’s a tough
but evenheaded jurist, respected
if not particularly well liked. at
home, he doesn’t try to disguise his
bad habits, has no friends, a tattered
family. a part of me despised him,
what he’s done. what he continues
to do. another part pities him and
will always be his little girl, his
devoted, copper-haired daughter.
his unfolding flower.

your life is not a stone;
it is clay.
you are a sculptor,
and you won’t be stuck here forever.

you are the first drop of rain
after a drought,
the first blooming flower of spring.
you are a lover’s first kiss,
the feeling of shaky fingers intertwining.
you are the first tear of someone’s first broken heart,
yet you are the glue that puts it back together.

you are the warm gratitude of the thought that we are there in this planet at the same time.

i am so depressed
i can’t breathe.
i lightly trace your lips with my finger,
then intertwine mine with yours,
and ask how long it’s been
since i touched you in that way.

you can’t remember.

keep certain music closer to you
than any person,
and know that you’re
entirely worthy
of using that music.

stay, king.
stay king.