A figure—
short as a tropical day,
with dreams taller than a narra tree,
that she wonders if she could hope
of climbing, one day;
when the sun is a gold she can paint,
in rough and round edges, thick and thin,
surely unsure of what will be,
but sure of how it will be
—follows me.
Her outline—
a similar shape,
wet with ink and scribbled with words,
like a bedtime story meant to haunt—
grows by night and shrinks by day—
noon valor extinguishes, and midnight woes refuel
—sticks to my skin.
And I—
tall as a tropical night,
with regrets etched in the mariana trench,
that i wonder if i could hope
of relieving you, one day;
when the sky is a white we could have owned,
in our own hues and strokes, eccentric but clearly ours,
still unsure of what will be,
yet sure that there is what is meant to be
—feel her graying.
To you/me—
cheeks soft as petals, wilted never withered,
a flaring flair, burnt to ashes,
paint-stained palms, your touch,
pain the paradigm of the present;
yet the seed remains, rooted,
embers live, so does warmth,
the stain reminds, eye to eye,
that my colors are alive
—6 years ago:
your dreams will come to be.
May 12
May 12, 2026 at 12:19 PM UTC
A figure—
short as a tropical day,
with dreams taller than a narra tree,
that she wonders if she could hope
of climbing, one day;
when the sun is a gold she can paint,
in rough and round edges, thick and thin,
surely unsure of what will be,
but sure of how it will be
—follows me.
Her outline—
a similar shape,
wet with ink and scribbled with words,
like a bedtime story meant to haunt—
grows by night and shrinks by day—
noon valor extinguishes, and midnight woes refuel
—sticks to my skin.
And I—
tall as a tropical night,
with regrets etched in the mariana trench,
that i wonder if i could hope
of relieving you, one day;
when the sky is a white we could have owned,
in our own hues and strokes, eccentric but clearly ours,
still unsure of what will be,
yet sure that there is what is meant to be
—feel her graying.
To you/me—
cheeks soft as petals, wilted never withered,
a flaring flair, burnt to ashes,
paint-stained palms, your touch,
pain the paradigm of the present;
yet the seed remains, rooted,
embers live, so does warmth,
the stain reminds, eye to eye,
that my colors are alive
—6 years ago:
your dreams will come to be.
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