Honestly, my three favorites are
Puerto Rico, Nevada, and Texas.
I follow you through your souvenirs,
stuck fast to my refrigerator door—
mementos of places I’ve never been.
You always did that,
traveled without much warning.
I envied your ability
to cut loose from all those undesired ties
and just fly far away to somewhere else.
Merciless adventure that begged to be tasted.
I missed you when you left,
more than most things, but
you’d always come back
with a little something
to decorate my modern-day ice box.
“That’s your thing,” you’d tell me,
handing me the magnetized treasures.
You'd help me pick out a spot
for each of them, and
it made me feel a bit better
for being so god ****** unworldly.
They’re all there, you know,
varying shapes and colors,
with eyesore typography
spelling out awful puns that I love.
Somehow, they fit together
and make a sort of perfect sense
that I can’t explain.
My three favorites are still
Puerto Rico, Nevada, and Texas—
pieces of your completed journey
radiating childlike wonder, fervent hope,
and plenty of open-ended questions.
Completed, with the exception
of a single, naked, white space
that I will wait my lifetime to fill,
because, like you said,
that’s my “thing,"
and I'll keep it as such,
I'll keep you as such,
until my sand runs out too.

A truth derived
out of the last armful of days:
“the heart just don’t quit.”
Despite the whole of it,
I stop dreaming each morning
to the beat of my own—
a soft, rhythmic reminder
that I’m still here;
still here
with breath to waste
if I wish.

Frankly, I don’t give a ****
if you weren't a spiritual guy,
because I can’t shake it—
I see your smile
in the smear of each sunset
and your side eye in the stars that follow.
I hear your ‘hello’
in every forgiving breeze
and your infectious laughter
in each clap of thunder.
In these small moments,
I feel whole for just a second,
and my heart swells at the thought
that you’re now so much bigger
than anything I can possibly
clasp my little t-rex arms around.
But, see,  I’m grateful
that I get to find you
from scratch
every single day—
that I can wrap myself
in all the parts of you
that I committed to memory—
that you, alone, gave me a chance
to fall in love
with the change of the seasons
all over again.

I’d imagine my guardian angel has put up with a lot of ****— car accidents, nights of overindulgence at the bar, trespassing to “not-so-skinny” skinny dip in gorges tucked away deeply between mountains. I’d imagine she’s shaken her head at me more times than she’s offered me a high five. I’d imagine I make her use less-than-flowery four letter language when I speak, loudly, without thinking first. I’d imagine she cringes when I forget to reapply sunscreen and fall asleep on the beach for three hours. I’d imagine she often questions why she got stuck with a soul that just can’t seem to settle and fit into a set groove.

I’d imagine she’s annoyed by the fact that I’m not a wholly religious person. I ask too many questions to let well enough alone. I’d imagine that she nearly has a heart attack when she taps into my thoughts when we pass a hoard of sweaty, young and rugged road construction workers on the highway. I’d imagine she’s over the moon that she’s not my mother, and that she definitely throws out some extra Hail Marys when I wake up thirty minutes late for work and somehow think I still have time to stop and get an iced chai latte.

I’d imagine that my guardian angel has put up with a lot of ****, but nothing quite so challenging as the loss of a soul I loved more than any other on this planet. I’d imagine she’d rather see me with a no-good, devilish smirk on my lips than these unpredictable streams of tears down my cheeks. I’d imagine she’d hush the thousands of questions circulating inside my head that just can’t be answered. I’d also imagine that she’d agree—the inside of my brain sounds a lot like some frat boy got really drunk, made some awful beats, and proclaimed himself the master of Fruity Loops. I’d imagine she, too, would like it to cease immediately, because it’s never, ever going to sound like something that makes sense.

I’d imagine that she’s mapped out all of the cracks this has left in my heart, navigated them, and is ready and waiting with the super glue and duct tape to make me feel whole again. I’d imagine that my pain is as much her charge as my happiness, and that she tries to deflect and channel it into better things whenever she’s able.

I’d imagine my guardian angel has now gained a great friend who can share in her grief of protecting me. Someone who also has shaken his head at me countless times for a lot of the same aforementioned antics, someone who was a little too tall to offer me high-fives but offered me the low ones with a side of a hug instead. Someone who always told me to calm down before I spoke—who told me to stop overthinking things until they didn’t make sense. Someone who always reminded me to reapply my sunscreen—who always ultimately tried to deflect my pain too.

I’d imagine my guardian angels expect me to continue to keep them on their toes. I'd imagine I don’t plan to disappoint either of them in the slightest.

*Rest easy. I'll be seeing you.

In the quiet hours
before the sun,
I shed a thousand
layers of you.
Dead, heavy skins
flutter to the ground
to decorate my ankles,
until suddenly,
I’m light.
So light that I float
and, as I rise,
breathe in
the whole universe.
I see colors—
new to my eyes.
I feel safe here,
knowing there is
no happiness
like mine.

It was a hope, but mostly me,
rust red and tired—
resembling the person who you’d
take the time to tell goodbye.

It was.

Now such a hope is taking shape
as that pretty sight you see
in your rearview mirror—
perhaps,
the shape of the clouds
outside of your window seat—
either way, she
dons designer shades,
a wickedly telling curve
on her lips,
and her *******—
a beacon,
held proudly to the sky.

Folded between waves,
she soaked up all of the magic
the salt air had to offer—
a quiet, little old soul,
turned riotously blissful
in the presence of the great Atlantic.
I saw this with my own eyes and smiled.
This love was in our blood,
passed down from our mothers,
unspoken but shared—
an immutable joy that dripped
from the ends of our hair,
mimicked our laugher
in these deep edges of blue,
and echoed in the fizz
of the crashing surf.
I saw this with my own eyes and smiled.
Folded between waves,
something in me settled especially for her:
No matter how unclear life may become,
she, too, would find happiness
as long as she could find her way
back to this shore.