I remember asking my dad,
“How many stars are in the sky,”
and he said something like,
“Way too many to count.”
But I’ve counted.
And after recounting
                                      and recounting
and scribbling in my notebook
under my fathers flashlight
I can tell you that there is
indeed a number.

And to this day I prefer
reading the stars over anything.
They’re the oldest book ever written.
Space: the oldest canvas to be sewn
and the cosmos the paint of Picasso.
Each spec is its own character
each pair a set of eyes
where I can lose myself in their gaze.
A celestial connect the dots
where I collect the pictures
and pick out my favorite spots.

But when my son
is old enough to ask,
“How many stars are in the sky?”
I’ll just hand him a notebook
and tell him to read what he sees.

Purple flowers fall
Soft color reminds of her
Lilac bush, old yard

purple is the the first day of october, when
strangers eats your bones for breakfast and
your mother calls you beautiful for the first time
purple is every corner you've ever passed
with your friends and family
with cigarettes and candy
purple is him looking at you but seeing
a child that smells like museums in France
purple is the bitter taste of dry wine
and a fragile boy you once knew so well
purple is loving someone who
will never love
you back