The days fall through me bruised and orange
and my feet touch nothing but Nevada red dirt
does summer come with brakes
or must I shade it all myself?

July was deeply Yuba blue
Reflecting everything white and berry tone
I only saw through it in time-lapsed clouds

August burned through the soles of my feet
orange and red and scorching

But September has come yellow

The poppies faded
yellow

The grass drowned in
yellow

The maples turning
yellow

So I will sit in my own golden California
watching time as colors
and willing Autumn brings kindness
until October comes purple

not everything is a big deal
just a little something I've been trying to remind myself of these days

I live in a very old house with yellow walls and tall ceilings and creaky doors
Every day I subconsciously make the same wrinkley dissatisfied face towards the smell of rotting peaches that line the walkway
The house is much prettier when everything is dead
I haven't made love in this house
though it's not to be said that love has been absent
In fact I have never loved anyone or anything more in any other house than in this old slanted set of walls
It was here that I began to fall in love with myself and with my life
It was here that recovery became more of a lifestyle and less of a chore
Now I here on my bed in my tiny room in my tiny old house with my tiny little puppy
thinking about all of the things that used to keep me up at night
and none of it matters anymore
because not everything is a big deal
-

loving you feels like a revolution.
In your embrace
I hear my ancestors sing.
And they tell me:
Hold her, tighter, tighter

And our love feels ancient,
Like our lives have been forever intertwined.
Like the vines of our souls have grown together
For centuries past
and separating them now,
is inconceivable.

It gets harder to imagine
me without you
as every day passes,
harder to imagine
you without me
as we get closer to the time
that it will be
day by day

you ***** gold glitter and compete in barbaric rituals
in order to impress, erase  
opinions made about you when you were 16
you think the world is watching but you have time to be little, it is okay to be little
you cannot mold me
i only retract when you try
you break me down deeper crawling under my skin in hopes to push your needle fingers out and make me strong, fierce, & untouchable
but it won't work
it just makes me bleed

and that's why you're leaving

I have dreams about your softness
and I'll write about my jealousy
while I’m kneading the sleep from my eyes
kneading bread on the counter
kneading my tired heart

She wrote about how to write a poem.
Ironic instructions in tiny letters,
Scratched out and scrawled in,
Words flowing as she flew,
Further and further away from me.

And in her words I put myself,
Imagine she might be writing with me in mind,
When she mentioned the girl she'd only just met,
with limited memories,
Of huge significance,
but also possibly no significance at all.
Because who really knows.
It's not the event itself that's important,
it's the value we place upon it all in hindsight.

But I can say, that every moment with her
Has held some form of significance to me.
Each time we've held hands,
It's felt monumental in some way.
And each time i've seen her face,
- all three occasions -
the light in her eyes has seemed profound.

And i don't know if it really has to mean anything
but i'm glad to have met her,
to have discovered this connection,
As strangely brief as our interaction may be.
Better to have known her little,
than to have missed her all my life.