can't get over you
can't get under you
what's a girl to do?

i'm a sunset
i have my days where i am not the brightest
i have my days where i never want to stop
i have my days where i am pale and calm
i have my days where i am bright pink and booming
   the days i beg to be seen
i am not always the most beautiful
i am not always noticed
sometimes i am shadowed by dark clouds hanging over my head
sometimes i am unobstructed and full of majesty
i am not always the best, you will not always like me
i am a sunset
i am temporary
i disappear and am born again

The birth and death of me
The eyes of my mother
My first lover
My first crush
My last
The vital existence of my passions thrive in the seas of such colours
They cut me
They cherish me
They undress me
They caress me
They spit lies
They weave truths
They hold my life ahead
They cool my flames
My existence is many shades of blue
Lapis lazuli and cerulean
Sapphire and aquamarine
The treasures of my past
The colours of my present
The looking glasses to my future

Once I was a Hero,
the Hero of my back yard.
My sword, faith and shield were handy,
kept my face unscarred.

I would fly on wings of ravens,
ride on the backs of beasts,
sleep under the Ice from the west,
rise with the Fire from the east.

I saved many fair maiden,
slew gremlins, ghosts, and goblins,
found ancient treasure from past kings,
ran through numerous gauntlets.

I commanded a battalion of knights,
who would shout my name with pride,
I wonder if my people have missed me,
since the day I grew up and died.

Seven hundred ninety four miles.
Twelve hours twenty three minutes.

I would’ve said something.
I should've said anything,

but her bags were packed.

Her boxes stacked
in the back seat.

I could only ask,
“When?”

and she told me
“Tomorrow.”

That night she placed my hand
on her stomach

and I felt you kick
for the first time.

Browsing in the bookstore,
I stumbled across
a journal

crammed with scraps
people found

in parking lots,
school yards,
fished out of trashcans.

Now I throw
copies of everything
I write away.

My next-door neighbor
is building a rocket to the
moon.

He has been at it for weeks,
banging, buzzing,
waiting for that one song,
his song, on the radio.
He will wipe the sweat

from his face climb into
the hatch and start the countdown.
One day, he told me about his life.
Separated, paying six hundred

dollars in child support
and taxes a month. Thirty-three,
living in the room he grew up in.

One day soon.
He was going.