Some days the trees outside my bedroom window glow a youthful green
And spread pale yellow petals across the dry earth.

Some days the trees are dull and gray.

When a thin red string pulls our bodies close
And our breathing keeps a beat,
I know that I am me
And I know that I am here.

But most of the time it feels as though my story was written in third person.

Just before the sun rises, I want to beat him to it.
I want to clamber over the mountain top and illuminate my beautiful Sonoran,
Stroke the backs of lizards who await my warmth
And kiss the skin of sleepy girls.

Instead my bones crack under the weight of my thoughts, layering on like humiliating harmonies.

Sometimes the trees are gray for weeks.
I wonder if they’ve died,
And I wonder if it hurt.
Every morning I separate the curtains to check if they are yellow again.
I check every morning and I wait for the yellow days to come
Because I think there is also someone who checks on me.