The oriel breaks the spell of night to read me fairytales in languages only the stars understand.
I count my fingers every day like I count the trees in my backyard, checking to make sure nothing changed because change means growing up and my body tells me that growing up is nothing more than learning to give up on seeing with your eyes.
I let the beach be hell, sand like tiny reminders of growing smaller every day, growing less visible.
I let the lake be heaven, no waves and no war, no machine guns, no fascists, no animal testing, no mothers with knives, no fathers with voices.
I feel the cardinal ripen and rot off the branches of the poplar tree, begging to see the final season of the Sopranos, just like my friend did when his legs and mouth stopped running.
I see the tattoos of everywhere you said you hated, Paris, Michigan, Dakota, and England appear on the soles of my feet. I crush them every time I walk to your house.
The albatross speaks only three words, let it be. Let it be.