i never could write in the sunshine, yet i had to.
and sometimes, the sky opens these memories
long, long locked away.
The parting of clouds, like that of eyes, of dreams.

of being 6 and crying tears of joy,
of being 12 and just crying,
the bite of bark against forearms,
the froth of a first beer,
and fires of first love,
and aches of growth,
seeing mirrors that never had a little boy smiling,
seeing horizons that never had an end.

sometimes, i think, the sky is like a mirror
reaching out across time.
and i think i could now dance carefree
with the snivelling younger me.

with all of that self-love,
seeing his future would be enough.

i. How to justify running away
there was no solid ground to stand on
no
earth to sink into.
a remember-me-not
of dirt.

ii. How to describe anxiety
laying on the edges of paper
slicing arteries of the throat,
the jugular veins,
forcing a sort of not cry/moan/scream/whimper.

iii. How to talk about unrequited love
push open the wound
accidentally scarring the memory
into skin.
writing calligraphy from the bloodstream.

iv. How to know what's home
slinking back to cotton
to caress and cover and rebuild
weary soul.
let a candle be the lighthouse.

v. How to write about someone who will never write back
oh these relentless intakes of air
that rattling the rib cage,
why is love only fair
when its finished to the bottom of the page.

What will I have of you
to show
Why I love you?
What, can I raise in my cold hands
to summon your warmth
back into my blood?
To speak of you, like snowflakes
in space,
to feel the shape of a name in my mouth?
What part of my heart
can I show, to make others understand?
To who can I hold like you did,
in my fever dreams,
to breathe in my whispers and lock them away for rainy days?
To who can I give these tears that betray my love?

Please. What can you leave for me
Before you have to leave me?