i am stuck in a
tangerine dream.
a breath of fresh air
or just air
that seems fresh
to me.

red face
quilled with ice cold
water.

there is only beauty
between the cracks
of contrast.

//

i cant call myself
a poet
if i dont tell you
that her lips
look soft.

they could heal me
like a bandaid
and hurt just as much
to peel off.

it doesnt feel like
virginia yet.
maybe only
vermont
or conneticut.

but im ready
to go home
if home feels
like it used to.