Poetry is the string
         looping through and
         weaving out
the needling pain

It knits a beautiful
         patchwork, coated with
         colorful patterns
our fingers trace

threads of our lives
         create designs
a shining::
shimmering::
or dulling
our emotions blend.

Night falls, magical
Dust in-between
The dim and The End,
Flies weightless and
Careless,
Canary cloudland
Carries the
Dots in flight, existing
Here nor there,
Their flicker
Absent
As the day
Is swept away.

It escapes.

I saw you,
daydreaming yourself into a world
that is kinder than the one we live in.
Good for you,
that kind of peace
is hard to find.

i could be that girl
whose voice is low and melodic
and coats your mouth with
acacia honey
whose eyes are the color
and depth of
midnight
whose presence is thick like
new york summers
rosy like
los angeles in early spring
if i braid flowers into my hair
if i write enough poems
if i learn to show the skin of my essence
but remain an abyss—
i will stop making art
when i become it